^^  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE    CATHEDRAL,    TOLEDO 


^  ROMANTIC   LEGENDS 
OF   SPAIN 


By 
GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 


TRANSLATED   BY 

CORNELIA  FRANCES  BATES 

AND 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


^   OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

Of 
NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


^^mnpi 


Copyright,  1909 
By  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  COMPANY 


yi^' 


c^^'^"' 


DEDICATED 
TO 


A   SHINING  MEMORY 


208527 


PREFACE 

A  WORD  regarding  the  circumstances  under  which  this 
translation  was  made  will  be  pardoned  by  all  children  of 
dear  mothers. 

Mrs.  Cornelia  Frances  Bates  (1826-1908),  a  graduate  of 
Mount  Holyoke  in  the  days  of  Mary  Lyon  and  the  widow 
of  a  Congregational  minister,  took  up  the  study  of  Spanish 
at  the  age  of  seventy-one.  Until  her  death  ten  years  later, 
the  proverbial  ten  years  of  "labor  and  sorrow,"  her  Spanish 
readings  and  translations  were  a  keen  intellectual  delight. 
Her  Spanish  Bible,  from  which  she  had  committed  many 
passages  to  memory,  was  found  at  her  death  no  less  worn 
than  her  English  one.  Even  a  few  hours  before  dying,  she 
repeated  in  Spanish,  without  the  failure  of  a  syllable,  the 
Shepherd's  Psalm  and  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

So  youthful  was  her  spirit  that,  of  the  various  modern 
Spanish  works  with  which  she  became  acquainted,  nothing 
fascinated  her  so  much  as  Becquer's  strange,  romantic  tales. 
The  wilder  they  were,  the  brighter  would  be  the  eager  face, 
under  its  soft  white  cap,  bent  over  the  familiar  little  green 
volumes  and  the  great  red  dictionary.  Seeing  the  pleasure 
she  took  in  these  legends  and  learning  that  no  complete  Eng- 
lish translation  existed,  I  suggested  that  we  unite  in  a 
"  Becquer  Book."     Her  full  share  of  the  work  was  promptly 

V 


vi  PREFACE 

done;  mine  was  delayed;  and  the  volume — which  we  had 
meant  to  inscribe  to  my  sister — becomes  her  own  memorial. 
Gratitude  for  helpful  suggestions  is  due  to  the  late  Mr. 
Frederick  Gulick  of  Auburndale,  Mass.,  formerly  of  San 
Sebastian,  and  to  Senorita  Carolina  Marcial,  formerly  of 
Seville  and  now  of  Wellesley  College.  Especial  and  most 
cordial  acknowledgment  is  made  of  the  critical  reading  given 
the  entire  manuscript  by  Miss  Alice  H.  Bushde  of  the 
Colegio  Iniernacionaly  Madrid. 

K.  L.  B. 


d   j-ii-'- 


<  -u- 


CONTENTS 

FAGB 

Preface v 

Gustavo  Adolfo  Becquer ,  v xi 

Foreword i 

'x-ilk^ASTER    PiREZ   THE   ORGANIST 5    */ 

Jf  A    Tale  of  Seville 

.J    ^tThe  Emerald  Eyes 23    '-^ 

y^''  A  Legend  of  the  Moncayo 

I    The  Golden  Bracelet 32 't^ 

A    Tale  of  Toledo  ^ 

The  Ray  of  Moonshine 40**^ 

A    Tale  of  Sort  a 

•     ^^<The  Devil's  CroSs 52* 

/  A   Legend  of  the  Eastern  Pyrenees 

Three  Dates.-. 72 

Reminiscences  of  Toledo 

/  ^ly^THE  Christ  OF  THE  Skull 93* 

'       '  A  Lege7td  of  Toledo 

NJ    The  White  Doe 105 

/  A  Legend  of  Aragon 

The  Passion  Rose* 1 26  • 

A  Legend  of  Toledo 

X.  Believe  in  Odd 137 

/  A  Legend  of  the  Montagut   Valley  in   Tarragona 

The  Proa^se 151 

I  A  Legend  of  Soria 

,  -~iyTHE  Kiss 163   ' 

/  A  Tale  of  Toledo 

The  Spirits'  Mountain"...   179* 

A  Legend  of  Soria 

vii 


"MlfU 


viii  CONTENTS 

i 

A  PAGB 

The  Cave  of  the  Moor's  Daughter 189 

A  Legend  of  Fitero 
The  Gnome i96» 

A    Tale  of  the  Moncayo  ^  >.       X^  I 

The  Miserere ^ ...,;.... .'. 2i4« Y 

A  Legend  0/  Fitero 
Strange  ! 226 

A  Story  of  Madrid       /^   ^         /4*-i^X      '^L-e  ^  . 

'^4>»^ iTHERED  Leaves 239^ 

y  A  Phantasy 

The  Set  of  Emeralds ^ y^....  244 

A  story  of  Madrii               fl^    l/>.«2^    ^  iro     A)^^ 
The  Tavern  of  the  Cats »;. v 252 

An  Idyl  of  Andalusia 
All  Souls'  Night 266 

In  Madrid 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Cathedral,  Toledo Frontispiece 

PAGB 

The  Cathedral,  Seville , 8 

A  City  Square,  Toledo 32 

The  Bridge  of  Toledo 40 

Cloister  of  San  Juan  de  los  Reyes 74 

The  Visagra  Gate 94 

A  Moorish  Window .,,.  126 

The  Monastery  of  Montserrat 146 

An  Ancient  Castle 1 56 

Palace  OF  Carlos  V,  Toledo 164 

A  Mountain  Pass 182 

A  Mountain  Grotto 190 

Girls  at  the  Fountain 198 

A  Monastery  Court 216 

A  Senorita 246 

A  Ruined  Cloister 266 


^^  OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

The  writer  of  these  tales  was  a  young  poet,  oppressed  by 
illness,  care  and  poverty.  His  brief  life  held  many  troubles. 
Born  in  Seville,  February  17,  1836,  of  a  distinguished  family 
that  came  to  Andalusia  from  Flanders  at  about  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  he  was  but  five  years  old,  the  fourth 
of  eight  little  sons,  when  he  lost  his  father.  The  bereave- 
ment was  greater  than  anyone  knew,  for  Don  Jose  Domin- 
guez  Becquer,  a  genre  painter  of  repute,  could  have  given 
this  imaginative  child,  a  genius  in  germ,  parental  sympathy 
and  guidance  in  an  unusual  degree.  Less  than  five  years 
later,  the  mother  died,  and  the  disposition  of  the  orphans 
became  a  puzzling  problem  for  relatives  and  friends.  Gus- 
tavo, who  had  already  attended  the  day  school  of  San  Antonio 
Abad,  was  admitted,  through  the  efforts  of  an  uncle,  to  the 
Colegio  de  Sa?i  TelmOy  a  naval  academy,  maintained  by  the 
government,  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir.  This  famous 
school  of  Seville  was  originally  founded  by  the  companions 
of  Columbus  in  gratitude  to  St.  Elmo,  patron  of  mariners. 
Here  Gustavo  found  a  friend  of  congenial  tastes,  Narciso 
Campillo,  with  whom  he  composed  and  presented  before 
their  admiring  mates  what  Senor  Campillo,  who  also  made  a 
name  for  himself  in  Spanish  letters,  has  described  as  "  a 
fearful  and  extravagant  drama."  But  Gustavo  had  enjoyed 
barely  a  year  of  this  new  life  when  Isabella  II  suppressed 
the  academy,  bestowing  building  and  grounds  on  her  newly 
wedded  sister,  the  Duchesse  de  Montpensier.  Visitors  to 
modern  Seville  know  well  the  Palacio  de  Santelmo^  with  the 

xi 


'V 


tf 


Xii  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

fountains  playing  in  its  marble  courts,  with  its  gardens  of 
orange  trees,  palms  and  aloes,  of  trellised  roses  and  luxuriant 
tropic  shrubs  ;  but  who  gives  a  thought  there  to  the  exiled* 
boy  thrown  again,  at  the  age  of  ten,  upon  the  chances  of 
the  world  ? 

His  godmother,  Doiia  Manuela  Monchay,  opened  her 
doors  to  the  waif,  and  in  her  comfortable  home  he  dwelt  for 
the  next  eight  years.  His  schooling  was  over,  but  he  read 
his  way  through  Dona  Manuela's  library  and,  at  fourteen, 
entered  the  studio  of  a  Seville  painter ;  here  for  two  years 
he  trained  his  talent  for  drawing.  Then  he  changed  to  the 
rival  studio,  that  of  his  father's  brother,  who  was  sufficiently 
impressed  by  the  lad's  literary  promise  to  have  him  taught 
a  little  Latin.  Meanwhile  his  godmother,  childless  and  well- 
to-do,  was  urging  him  to  adopt  a  mercantile  career.  Had 
he  consented,  it  is  supposed  that  she  would  have  made  him 
her  heir,  and  his  manhood,  instead  of  the  exhausting  struggle 
it  was  for  bread  and  shelter,  might  have  been,  from  the 
worldly  point  of  view,  prosperous  enough.  But  the  visionary 
youth,  who,  says  his  friend  Correa,*  "  had  learned  to 
draw  while  he  was  yet  learning  to  write,  whose  unbounded 
passion  for  reading  had  given  him  wider  horizons  than  those 
of  book-keeping,  and  who  could  never  do  a  sum  in  mental 
arithmetic,"  would  not  betray  his  ideal.  While  his  prudent 
godmother  was  making  her  own  plans  for  his  future,  he  was 

*  To  the  posthumous  edition  of  Becquer's  Works,  Senor  Correa  pre- 
fixed an  account  of  the  poet's  life.  This,  brief  and  often  indefinite  as  it 
is,  remains  the  authentic  biography.  It  has  been  partially  reproduced 
in  English  by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  who  published  in  Macmillah's 
Magazine,  February,  1883,  pp.  305-320,  a  valuable  article  entitled  :/4 
Spanish  Romanticist :  Gustavo  Becqiier.  Professor  Olmsted  of  Cornell, 
in  his  recent  class-room  edition  of  selected  Legends,  Tales  and  Poems  by 
Becquer  (Ginn  and  Company,  Boston,  1907)  contributes  additional  facts 
gathered  from  Spanish  periodical  articles — of  which  he  gives  a  bibliog- 
raphy— and  in  conversation  with  Spaniards  who  had  known  the  poet. 


GUSTA  VO  ADOLFO  BECQUER  xiii 

composing  with  Campillo  the  opening  cantos  of  an  epic  on 
The  Conquest  of  Seville^  or  wandering  alone  on  the  banks  of 
the  Guadalquivir,  his  "  majestic  Betis,  the  river  of  nymphs, 
naiads  and  poets,  which,  crowned  with  belfries  and  laurels, 
flows  to  the  sea  from  a  crystal  amphora."  In  the  shade  of 
the  white  poplars  he  would  lie  and  dream  "  of  an  indepen- 
dent, blissful  life,  like  that  of  the  bird,  which  is  born  to  sing, 
while  God  provides  it  with  food,  .  .  .  that  tranquil  life  of  the 
poet,  which  glows  with  a  soft  lustre  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration." And  when  that  life  should  be  over,  he  saw  his 
grateful  city,  the  Sultana  of  Andalusia,  laying  her  poet  down 
"  to  dream  the  golden  dream  of  immortality  on  the  banks  of 
the  Be'tis,  whose  praise  I  should  have  sung  in  splendid  odes, 
in  that  very  spot  where  I  used  to  go  so  often  to  hear  the 
sweet  murmur  of  its  waves."  His  pensive  fancy  loved  to 
picture  that  white  cross  under  the  poplars  whose  green  and 
silver  leaves,  as  they  rustled  in  the  wind,  would  seem  to  be 
praying  for  his  soul,  while  the  birds  in  their  branches  would 
carol  at  dawn  a  joyous  resurrection  hymn.  And  when  the 
river  reeds  and  the  wild  morning-glories,  his  favorite  "  blue 
morning-glories  with  a  disk  of  carmine  at  the  heart,"  hovered 
over  by  "  golden  insects  with  wings  of  light,"  should  have 
grown  up  about  the  marble,  hiding  his  time-blurred  name 
with  a  leafy  curtain,  what  matter  ?  "  Who  would  not  know 
that  I  was  sleeping  there  ?  "  And  so,  to  escape  commercial 
drudgery  and  realize  these  fair  visions,  the  young  Anda- 
lusian,  at  eighteen,  the  mid-point  of  his  life,  with  no  more 
than  sufficed  for  the  costs  of  the  journey  to  Madrid,  started 
forth  on  his  quest  of  glory. 

It  may  truly  be  said  of  Becquer  that,  like  Hakluyt's 
staunch  old  worthies,  he  was  "  content  to  take  his  adventure 
gladly."  Nobody  ever  knew  how  narrow  were  the  straits  of 
those  first  years  in  Madrid.  He  had  to  turn  his  hand  to 
anything,  from  odds  and  ends  of  journalism  to  a  day's  job 


xiv  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

of  fresco-painting.  Homesick,  hungry,  ill,  he  kept  through 
it  all  a  brave  buoyancy  of  spirits  and  a  manly  reticence  as 
to  his  sufferings.  "  He  was  never  known,"  testifies  Correa/ 
"  to  complain  of  his  hard  life  or  his  physical  distresses,  nor 
to  curse  his  fate.  Silent  as  long  as  he  was  unhappy,  he 
would  find  voice  only  to  express  a  moment's  pleasure."  He 
made  fun  of  his  troubles,  which  he,  more  easily  than  grosser 
souls,  could  indeed  forget  in  the  ecstatic  contemplation  of 
beauty  or  in  giving  form  to  the  crowding  fantasies  that 
clamored  in  his  brain.  A  friend,  more  concerned  over  his 
privations  than  was  Becquer  himself,  found  him  a  position 
as  copyist  in  an  office  of  one  of  the  state  departments  at  a 
salary  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year.  The  poet, 
more  out  of  gratitude  for  the  intended  kindness  than  from 
any  sense  of  personal  relief,  for  he  would  rather  starve  body 
than  mind,  undertook  the  irksome  employment.  But  the 
national  finances,  under  the  drain  of  the  Carlist  wars  and 
the ,  popular  uprisings  and  official  corruption  of  Isabella's 
disastrous  reign,  had  become  so  embarrassed  that  economy 
in  the  public  service  was  imperative,  and  Becquer  was 
pointed  out — perhaps,  after  all,  by  his  good  angel — for  a 
victim.  In  the  Direccibn  de  Bienes  Nacionales,  as  in  other 
departments,  superfluous  men  were  to  be  weeded  out.  The 
Director,  as  chance  would  have  it,  came  into  the  office  one 
day  when  all  the  clerks  were  gathered  about  Becquer's 
stool,  eagerly  looking  over  his  shoulders,  lost  in  admiration 
of  the  sketches  that  his  facile  pen  was  turning  off.  The 
Director,  joining  the  group  and  peering  with  the  rest, 
demanded :  "  What  is  this  ?  "  Not  recognizing  the  voice, 
the  culprit,  absorbed  in  the  joy  of  art,  innocently  answered : 
"  This  is  Ophelia,  plucking  the  leaves  from  her  garland. 
That  old  uncle  is  a  grave-digger.  Over  there  " — At  this 
point  the  awful  silence  smote  his  senses  and  he  looked  up 
only  to  meet  the  verdict :  "  Here  is  one  that  can  be  spared." 


GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER  xv 

But  although  Becquer  thus  failed  to  serve  his  country 
with  proper  zeal  in  the  only  direct  opportunity  she  afforded 
him,  the  touch  of  the  capital,  with  its  sense  of  impending 
crisis,  its  call  for  patriotic  leadership,  had  given  a  new 
turn  to  his  dreams.  Or  perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say 
that  the  Gothic  cathedrals,  old  castles  and  ruined  abbeys  so 
abundant  in  Castile,  though  not  in  the  Crowned  City  itself, 
had  fastened  the  hold  of  the  feudal  world,  with  its  military 
ideals,  upon  his  imagination.  In  these  days  he  longed — or 
fancied  that  he  longed — to  be  "  a  thunderbolt  of  war,"  to 
exert  a  mighty  influence  on  the  destinies  of  Spain,  so  that 
every  revolution  of  the  future  might  be,  as  it  were,  a  person- 
ification of  himself,  but  most  of  all  he  indulged  his  musings 
in  the  glorious  picture  of  a  warrior's  death  and  burial.  He 
would  have  chosen,  his  "  thirst  for  triumphs  and  acclaim 
assuaged,  to  fall  in  battle,  hearing  as  the  last  sound  of  earth 
the  shrill  clamor  of  the  trumpets  of  my  valiant  hosts, — to  be 
borne  upon  a  shield,  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  my  tattered 
banner,  emblem  of  a  hundred  victories,  finding  the  peace  of 
the  grave  in  the  depths  of  one  of  those  holy  cloisters  where 
dwells  eternal  silence  and  to  which  the  centuries  lend  majesty 
and  a  mysterious,  indefinable  hue."  And  then  the  artist  in 
him  revelled  in  all  the  detailed  beauty  of  that  visioned  tomb 
"  bathed  in  dusky  shadow,"  on  which  his  statue,  "  of  richest, 
transparent  alabaster,"  wdth  sword  on  breast  and  couchant 
lion  at  the  feet,  was  to  sleep  an  august  sleep  under  the 
hushed  watch  of  long-robed,  praying  angels. 

Meanwhile,  bad  lodging  and  uncertain  fare  were  telling 
on  his  delicate  constitution.  In  one  respect,  Becquer  was 
always  fortunate — in  friends.  Early  in  his  Madrid  life  he 
had  won  the  faithful  affection  of  Correa,  another  young 
literary  aspirant  leading  a  hand-to-mouth  existence,  but  of 
vigorous  physique  and  practical  capabilities.  When  in  the 
third  year  of  his  struggle  Becquer  fell  seriously  ill — "  hor- 


xvi  G US TA  VO  ADOLFO  BE CQ UER 

ribly "  ill,  says  Correa — this  devoted  comrade  not  only 
nursed  him  through,  but,  finding  among  the  poet's  papers  a 
long  legend  purporting  to  be  an  East  Indian  tradition, 
managed  to  get  it  published  in  La  Crofiica, — the  beginning 
of  success.  This  legend.  The  Chieftain  of  the  Crimson 
Hands,  has  to  do  with  the  expiation  of  a  fratricide  by  a 
pilgrimage  up  the  Ganges  to  its  far  sources  in  the  Himalayas, 
that  in  the  most  secret  of  those  sacred  springs  the  clinging 
bloodstains  might  be  washed  away.  But  after  forty  moons 
of  weary  travel  across  the  broad  plains  of  India  up  into  the 
very  shadow  of  the  dread  Himalayan  wall,  a  law  of  the 
pilgrimage  was  broken,  and  Vishnu  could  no  longer  shield 
the  slayer  from  the  wrath  of  Siva,  who,  himself  the  De- 
stroyer, resents  all  other  destruction  as  an  infringement  on 
his  great  prerogative. 

Another  Indian  subject.  The  Creation,  on  which  Becquer 
had  tried  his  hand  with  a  peculiarly  light,  ironic  touch, 
yielded  a  more  characteristic  result.  The  fable  tells  how 
Brahma,  utterly  bored  by  the  contemplation  of  his  own  per- 
fections, took  to  chemistry.  The  astonished  cherubs  flut- 
tered on  their  thousand-colored  wings  about  the  smoking, 
roaring  tower  where  the  Deity  had  his  laboratory  and  where 
his  eight  arms  and  sixteen  hands  were  all  kept  busy  with 
managing  his  test-tubes  and  retorts,  for  he  was  shaping 
worlds  to  people  space.  But  one  day,  tired  of  his  experi- 
ments, he  went  out  to  take  the  air  and,  for  all  his  omniscience, 
absent-mindedly  failed  to  lock  the  door.  In  swarmed  the 
cherubs,  ripe  for  mischief,  and  lost  no  time  in  turning  every- 
thing topsy-turvy.  They  flung  the  parchments  into  the  fire, 
pulled  the  stoppers  out  of  the  flasks,  overturned  the  great 
glass  vessels,  breaking  not  a  few  of  them  and  spilling  their 
contents,  and  wound  up  their  meddling  by  blowing  a  ridicu- 
lous, soap-bubble  planet  of  their  own.  This  imperfect  globe, 
all  awry,  with  flattened  poles  and  with  contradictor)^  elements, 


GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER  xvii 

heat  and  cold,  joy  and  grief,  good  and  evil,  life  and  death, 
at  war  within  itself,  went  rolling  so  grotesquely  on  its  axis, 
that  the  peals  of  cherubic  laughter  brought  Brahma  hurrying 
back.  In  his  vexation  he  was  about  to  crush  that  prepos- 
terous, misformed  world,  our  world,  but  the  appeaUng  cries 
of  the  celestial  children  moved  him  to  let  them  toss  their 
absurd  toy  out  into  the  ether  among  his  own  beautiful,  self- 
consistent,  harmonious  spheres.  Ever  since,  the  cherubs 
have  been  trundling  it  about  the  sky,  to  the  amazement  of 
the  other  planets  and  the  despair  of  us  poor  mortals  ;  but  it 
will  not  last.  "There  is  nothing  more  tender  nor  more 
terrible  than  the  hands  of  little  children  ;  in  these  the  play- 
thing cannot  long  endure." 

It  was  not  literature  like  this  that  the  Spanish  periodicals 
were  seeking  in  the  stormy  fifties.  It  was  a  time  of  the 
keenest  political  strife,  when  even  poets  and  novelists  were 
bought  by  one  party  or  another  and  made  to  fight  in  the 
midst  of  the  newspaper  arena.  But  no  extremity  could  bring 
Becquer  to  be  a  politician's  tool.  "  Incapable  of  hatred," 
says  Correa,  "  he  never  placed  his  enviable  powers  as  a 
writer  at  the  service  of  animosity  .  .  .  nor  was  his  noble 
character  fitted  for  adulation  or  assiduous  servility."  Yet 
in  his  own  way  he  played  the  patriot  by  earnest  effort,  con- 
tinued unceasingly  throughout  his  life,  to  assist  in  recording 
by  pen  and  pencil  the  architectural  beauties  and  devout 
traditions  of  Spain  before  these  should  have  utterly  perished 
under  the  march  of  progress.  Putting  politics  out  of  his 
mind  as  a  matter  of  little  moment,  Becquer  undertook,  with 
a  few  kindred  spirits,  what  might  have  proved,  with  adequate 
support,  a  monumental  work  on  the  Spanish  churches.  As 
it  was,  there  appeared  only  one  volume,  to  which  he  con- 
tributed the  Introduction,  the  chapters  on  the  famous  Toledo 
monastery,  San  Juan  de  los  Reyes,  and  a  number  of  draw- 
ings.    In  his  story  Three  Dates,  more  descriptive  than  nar- 


xviii  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

rative,  we  catch  a  few  fleeting  glimpses  of  him,  always  with 
his  sketch-book,  pursuing  his  artistic  and  archaeological 
researches  in  Toledo.  A  similar  errand,  in  all  probability,, 
took  him  to  Soria,  an  ancient  city  peculiarly  rich  in  mediae- 
val buildings,  situated  .on  the  Douro,  to  the  north-east  of 
Madrid.  In  Soria  he  found  several  of  his  legends  and,  less 
fortunately,  a  wife,  Carta  Esteban  y  Navarro.  The  mar- 
riage, which  took  place  about  1861,  soon  resulted  in  separa- 
tion. Becquer  retained  possession  of  the  children,  two 
baby  boys,  for  whom  he  tenderly  cared,  as  best  he  could  in 
his  Bohemian  life,  until  the  last. 

It  would  seem  to  have  been  the  unwonted  sense  of  an  as- 
sured income  that  gave  him  courage  to  undertake  the  sup- 
port of  a  wife,  for  in  this  year  1861  his  constant  friend  Correa 
obtained  for  him  a  position  on  the  staff  of  a  new  Madrid 
daily.  El  Contempordneo,  a  journal  into  whose  labors  he 
threw  himself  with  a  zest  far  beyond  his  strength  and  which 
he  came  to  love  with  a  touching  enthusiasm.  "  El  Contem- 
pordneo is  not  for  me  a  newspaper  like  any  other ;  its  columns 
are  yourselves,  my  friends,  my  comrades  in  hope  or  disap- 
pointment, in  failure  or  triumph,  in  joy  or  bitterness."  It 
was  in  El  Contempordneo  that  many  of  his  legends  appeared. 
But  even  as  he  thus  became  more  and  more  closely  identified 
with  the  life  of  Madrid,  homesickness  grew  upon  him  for  his 
own  Andalusia  "  with  her  golden  days  and  luminous,  trans- 
parent nights," — for  his  own  Seville,  "  with  her  Giralda  of 
lace-work  mirrored  in  the  trembling  Guadalquivir,  ,  .  . 
with  her  barred  windows  and  her  serenades,  her  iron  door- 
screens  and  her  night  watchmen  that  chant  the  hour,  her 
shrines  and  her  stories,  her  brawls  and  her  music,  her  tran- 
quil nights  and  fiery  afternoons,  her  rosy  dawns  and  azure 
twilights, — Seville,  with  all  the  traditions  that  twenty  cen- 
turies have  heaped  upon  her  brow,  with  all  the  pageantry 


GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 


XIX 


and  festal  beauty  of  her  southern  nature,  with  all  the  poetry 
that  imagination  lends  to  a  beloved  memory." 

He  re-visited  Seville,  if  The  Tavern  of  the  Cats  can  be 
taken  as  testimony,  at  about  this  time,  and  may  so  have  re- 
newed intercourse  with  his  family,  for  in  1862  his  next  older 
brother,  Valeriano,  who,  following  in  their  father's  path,  had 
entered  on  a  promising  career  as  a  painter  of  Andalusian 
types,  came  to  him  in  Madrid.  Valeriano,  too,  was  of  frail 
physique;  he,  too,  had  been  unhappy  in  his  marriage;  yet 
the  brothers  affectionately  joined  such  forces  as  they  had  and 
set  up,  with  the  little  children,  a  makeshift  for  a  home.  But 
in  a  year  or  two  some  wasting  illness,  apparently  the  early 
stages  of  consumption,  forced  the  poet  to  leave  "  the  Court  '* 
and  seek  renewal  of  health  in  the  mountain  valley  of  Veruela, 
During  this  sojourn  he  gathered  several  legends  of  the  Mon- 
cayo,  that  precipitous  granite  wall — known  to  Martial  as  the 
haunt  of  ^olus — which  bars  Old  Castile  from  Aragon  and 
divides  the  basin  of  the  Douro,  the  river  of  Soria,  from  that 
of  the  Ebro,  the  river  of  Saragossa.  To  Becquer  its  snowy 
crests  looked  "  like  the  waves  of  a  motionless,  gigantic  sea." 
But  the  main  literary  result  of  that  retirement  is  found  in 
the  series  of  eight  exquisite  letters.  From  My  Cell,  the  high- 
water  mark  of  Becquer's  prose,  sent  back  to  El  Co7itetnpo- 
rdneo.  In  these  he  gives  a  vivid,  humorous  account  of  his 
journey,  by  rail  to  Tudela,  by  diligence  to  Tarazona,  and  by 
mule  up  the  Moncayo  to  Veruela,  in  whose  walled  and 
towered  old  Cistercian  abbey  he  found  an  austere  refuge. 
He  had  his  Shakespeare  with  him  and  his  Byron,  but  the 
event  of  the  day,  in  the  earlier  weeks  of  his  banishment,  was 
the  arrival  of  the  mounted  postman  with  El  Contempordneo. 
He  could  not  wait  for  it  in  the  Gothic  cloisters,  but  would 
wander  halfway  down  the  poplar  avenue  to  the  Black 
Cross  of  Veruela  and,  seated  at  its  foot  on  one  of  the  marble 
steps,  would  wait  sometimes  the  afternoon  long  listening  for 


XX  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

the  far-off  beat  of  the  horse's  hoofs.  The  journal  came  to 
him  like  a  personal  greeting  from  the  life  he  had  left  behind. 
He  loved  even  the  odor  of  the  damp  paper  and  the  printer's 
ink,  an  odor  that  brought  back  to  him  "  the  incessant  pound- 
ing and  creaking  of  the  presses  "  and  all  the  eager  activity 
of  those  hurrying  nights  in  which  the  words  "  came  palpitat- 
ing from  the  pen."  But  with  sunset  the  feverish  memories 
of  Madrid  fell  from  him  and  his  thoughts  took  on  the 
serenity  of  faith,  "  the  faith  in  something  grander,  in  a  coming, 
unknown  destiny  beyond  this  life,  the  faith  in  eternity." 
Again  he  found  himself  dreaming  of  death,  but  not  now  of  a 
poet's  cherished  grave  beside  the  Guadalquivir,  not  now  of 
a  great  patriot's  tomb  in  some  sublime  cathedral,  but  of  a 
mound  in  a  village  burial-plot,  forgotten  under  nettles,  thistles 
and  grass.  Long  tormented  by  insomnia,  it  seemed  sweet 
to  him  to  slumber  in  such  untroubled  peace,  *'  wrapt  in  a 
light  cloak  of  earth,"  without  having  over  him  "even  the 
weight  of  a  sepulchral  stone."  As  the  mountain  air  brought 
strength,  he  began  to  ramble  over  the  Moncayo,  sketching 
and  gathering  up  traditions,  while  through  El  Cofitempordneo 
he  passionately  urged  the  claims  of  the  past,  and  proposed 
the  state  organization  of  archaeological  expeditions  in  groups 
made  up  of  an  artist,  an  architect  and  a  man  of  letters,  to 
explore  the  provinces  for  their  hidden,  perishing  traces  of 
that  bygone  Spain  of  Roman,  Visigoth,  Moor,  mailed  knight 
and  saintly  vision.  Bent,  as  ever,  on  doing  his  part  in  this 
unprized  service,  he  wrote  out,  in  the  quiet  and  leisure  that 
had  been  so  seldom  his,  masterly  descriptions  of  the  market- 
place of  Tarazona,  and  of  the  peasant- women  of  the  Ama- 
zonian hamlet  of  An6n.  In  the  sixth  letter  he  narrates,  with 
a  pen  almost  unendurably  graphic,  the  recent  doing  to  death 
of  a  reputed  hereditary  witch,  a  wretched  old  woman  whom 
the  superstitious  Aragonese  peasants  had,  in  very  truth, 
hunted  to  a  peak  of  the  Moncayo  off  which,  bleeding  from 


GUSTA  VO  ADOLFO  BECQUER  xxi 

stones  and  knives,  she  had  been  thrust  down  the  precipice. 
In  the  seventh  and  eighth  letters  he  goes  on  to  relate,  in  his 
most  attractive  manner,  two  local  legends  of  witchcraft, — 
one  of  the  necromancer  who  built  in  a  night  the  castle  of 
Trasmoz,  and  one  of  the  pious  priest  who  exorcised  the 
witches  that  had  come,  in  course  of  time,  to  make  its  ruined 
tower  their  tryst,  only  to  have  his  work  undone  by  the  girlish 
vanity  of  his  niece.  She  tampered  with  the  holy  water  and 
restored  to  the  witches  the  freedom  of  the  castle  in  return 
for  their  kind  offices  in  scrambling  down  her  chimney,  gray 
cats,  black  cats,  all  manner  of  cats,  the  night  before  a  festi- 
val, and  stitching  up  for  her  such  fascinating  finery  that  she 
forthwith  won  a  husband. 

His  brother  followed  Becquer  to  Veruela  and  together  they 
made  trial  of  the  neighboring  Baths  of  Fitero  in  Navarre, 
but  they  were  in  Madrid  again  by  1865,  often  sorely  put 
to  it  in  the  effort  to  carry  the  costs  of  their  little  household. 
If  one  of  the  children  fell  ill  and  a  doctor  must  be  called  in, 
a  friend  might  be  entreated  for  an  emergency  loan  of  three 
or  four  dollars ;  but  as  a  rule  these  invalid  brothers  bore 
their  burden  unassisted.  Valeriano  drew  woodcuts  for  such 
market  as  he  could  find,  talking,  says  Correa,  of  "  the  great 
pictures  he  would  paint  as  soon  as  he  could  get  the  canvases," 
and  Gustavo  translated  the  trashy  French  novels  that  were 
in  demand,  writing,  in  the  intervals  of  such  hack  work,  an 
occasional  fantasy  of  delicate  beauty,  as  Withered  Leaves ^ 
and  ever  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  he  should  have 
golden  hours  of  calm  in  which  he  might  give  his  higher  and 
more  mystical  conceptions  fitting  utterance.  Twice  it  seemed 
as  if  the  way  were  opening.  Isabella's  last  prime  minister, 
Luis  Gonzalez  Bravo,  became  interested  in  the  poet  and 
made  him  censor  of  novels.  Becquer  immediately  availed 
himself  of  the  comparative  leisure  thus  afforded  to  gather 
together  a  volume  of  his  poems,  which  Gonzalez  Bravo  was 


xxii  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

proposing  to  print  at  his  own  expense.  Then  burst  the  long- 
gathering  storm  of  1868,  the  genial,  unprincipled  queen  was 
dethroned,  and  her  prime  minister  of  literary  tastes  fled  to 
the  frontier  with  such  precipitation  that  the  precious  manu- 
script entrusted  to  his  keeping  was  lost.  Becquer,  with  that 
scrupulous  honor  well  known  to  his  friends,  promptly  re- 
signed his  censorship ;  Valeriano's  pension  for  the  study  of 
national  types  was  withdrawn  ;  and  the  year  1869  ^^^  them 
again  in  straits.  Yet  they  took  daily  comfort  in  their  close 
brotherly  love  and  their  artistic  sympathies,  even  though,  in 
those  troublous  times,  their  joint  enthusiasm  for  the  beauties 
of  Toledo  once  landed  them  in  jail.  They  were  then  tem- 
porarily residing,  with  their  little  family,  in  their  favorite 
city,  "the  city  sombre  and  melancholy /^r  excellence,^''  and 
had  sallied  out,  one  evening,  to  contemplate  its  ghostly 
charms  by  moonlight.  Their  disordered  dress,  long  beards, 
excited  gestures  and  eager  talk  roused  the  suspicion  of  a 
brace  of  Civil  Guards,  who,  drawing  near  and  overhearing 
such  dangerous  terms  as  "  apses,  squinches,  ogives,"  seized 
the  conspirators  without  more  ado  and  lodged  them,  for  their 
further  artistic  illumination,  in  one  of  the  historic  dungeons 
of  Toledo.  The  next  morning  the  editorial  room  of  El  Con- 
tempordneo  resounded  with  merriment  as  a  letter  from  Bec- 
quer went  the  rounds, — a  letter  "  all  full,"  says  Correa,  **  of 
sketches  representing  in  detail  the  probable  passion  and 
death  of  both  innocents."  The  entire  staff  united  in  a  writ- 
ten protest  and  explanation  to  the  jailer,  and  it  was  long 
remembered  in  that  office  with  what  shining  eyes  and  peals 
of  laughter  the  delivered  prisoners,  on  their  return,  set  out 
their  adventure  in  exuberant  wit  of  words  and  pencil. 

The  second  opportunity  came  with  the  founding  of  that 
now  famous  periodical.  La  Ilustracibn  de  Madrid ;  but  it 
came  too  late.  Becquer  was  appointed  director  and  looked 
to  for  regular  contributions,  while  Valeriano  furnished  many 


GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER  xxiii 

of  the  illustrations.  The  management  had  large  schemes  in 
hand,  including  a  Library  of  Great  Authors^  for  which  Bec- 
quer  began  a  translation  of  Dante.  But  now,  when  a  certain 
degree  of  freedom,  rehef  and  recognition  had  been  at  last 
attained,  the  strained  and  fretted  cord  of  life  gave  way. 
•The  first  number  of  La  llustracibn  appeared  January  12, 
1870.  On  September  23,  Valeriano  died  in  his  brother's 
arms.  On  December  22,  the  poet,  surrounded  by  devoted 
friends  to  whom,  with  his  failing  breath,  he  commended  his 
children,  sank  exhausted  into  that  mysterious  repose  on 
which,  from  boyhood,  his  musings  had  so  often  dwelt.  But 
his  mocking  destiny  was  not  yet  content.  His  body  was 
buried  in  one  of  those  crowded  city  cemeteries  always  so 
repugnant  to  him,  San  Nicolds  in  Madrid.  His  younger 
son  did  not  live  to  manhood ;  the  elder,  his  namesake,  went 
wrong. 

His  loyal  friends,  after  raising  what  money  they  could  for 
the  children,  gathered  together  and  published  in  three  small 
volumes  the  most  characteristic  of  Becquer's  writings, — a 
series  of  lyrical  poems,*  the  letters  Froin  My  Cell^-\  some 
legends  and  tales  of  unequal  meritj  and  a  few  miscel- 
laneous   articles  t    on   architecture,  literature  and  the  like. 

*  Of  the  seventy-six  poems  that  make  up  the  Rimas,  thirty-two  are 
given  in  literal  English  rendering  by  Lucy  White  Jennison  ( "  Owen 
Innsley")  as  the  third  section  of  her  Love  Songs  and  Other  Poems 
(The  Grafton  Press,  New  York,  1883),  and  a  few  are  similarly  rendered 
by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  in  the  article  already  mentioned.  A  complete 
translation  in  English  verse,  by  Jules  Renard  of  Seattle,  has  just  come 
(1908)  from  The  Gorham  Press,  Richard  G.  Badger,  Boston. 

t  Not,  to  my  knowledge,  translated  into  English. 

X  Except  for  a  few  magazine  waifs  and  strays,  usually  in  abridged 
form,  and  for  seven  out  of  the  twelve  stories  in  W.  W.  Gibbings'  Ter- 
rible Tales,  where  the  translation,  -according  to  Professor  Olmsted,  is 
"often  inaccurate,"  these  legends- have  not  before  been  translated  into 
English.  The  twenty-one  here  given  include  everything  even  remotely  in 
the  nature  of  a  tale  contain-ed  in  the  three  volumes,  with  the  exception 


xxiv  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

The  Rimas  almost  immediately  established  Becquer's  fame. 
He  is  counted  to-day  among  the  chief  lyrists  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  These  poignant  snatches  of  song  pass,  in 
theme,  from  life  to  love  and  from  love  to  death.  So  far  as 
they  give,  or  purport  to  give,  a  history  of  the  poet's  heart, 
they  tell  of  passion  at  first  requited,  then  of  estrangement 
and  despair.  It  is  supposed  that  a  certain  Julia  Espfn  y 
Guillen,  later  the  wife  of  Don  Benigno  Quiroga  Ballesteros, 
a  living  Spaniard  of  distinction,  figures  to  some  extent  in 
the  Rimas.  The  house  of  her  father,  director  of  the  orches- 
tra in  the  Teatro  Red!,  was  a  resort  of  young  musicians, 
artists  and  men  of  letters,  and  here  Becquer,  during  his 
earlier  years  in  Madrid,  was  a  frequent  guest  There  seems 
little  doubt  that  his  youthful  devotion  was  given,  though  in 
silence,  to  this  disdainful  brunette,  but  the  poems  likewise 
tell  of  a  love  "  of  gold  and  snow."  There  is  a  green-eyed 
maiden,  too,  whom  he  essays  to  comfort  for  this  peculiarity, 
— though,  indeed,  eyes  of  jewel  green,  strangely  fascinating, 
are  not  rare  in  Spain.  He  may  have  had  her  in  mind  in 
writing  his  legend  of  The  Emerald  Eyes.  And  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  lyrics  follows  out  the  slight  thread  of  story  in 
Three  DateSy  representing  the  poet  as  gazing  night  after 
night  up  from  that  ancient  Toledo  square,  with  its  glorified 
rubbish-heap,  to  the  ogive  windows  of  the  convent  where 
the  nun  who  had  so  thrilled  his  imagination  was  immured. 
Over  the  spirit  of  Becquer,  to  whom  the  immaterial  was  ever 
more  real  than  the  material,  no  one  actual  woman  held  last- 

of  the  two  East  Indian  legends  already  mentioned,  and  the  two  witch- 
craft tales  in  From  My  Cell.  Good  as  these  witch  stories  are,  it  seemed 
apitytotake  them  out  of  their  context.  What  might  be  considered 
further  omission  is  noted  later.  Of  the  translations  in  this  volume, 
several  have  appeared  in  Short  Stories,  two  in  The  Churchman,  and  one 
in  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript. 


GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER  xxv 

ing  sway.     He  tells  the  truth  of  the  matter  in  his  eleventh 
lyric  : 

I  am  black  and  comely;  my  lips  are  glowing; 

I  am  passion;  my  heart  is  hot ; 

The  rapture  of  life  in  my  veins  is  flowing. 

For  me  thou  callest  t — I  call  thee  not. 

Pale  is  my  forehead  and  gold  my  tresses ; 
Endless  comforts  are  locked  in  me, 
Treasure  of  hearthside  tendernesses. 
'  Tis  I  whom  thou  seekest  ? — Nay,  not  thee. 

I  am  a  dream,  afar,  forbidden. 

Vague  as  the  mist  on  the  mountain-brow, 

A  bodiless  glory,  haunting,  hidden  ; 

I  cannot  love  thee. — Oh,  come  !  come  thou ! 

Becquer  himself  was  wont  to  ascribe  the  premature  death 
of  poets,  that  breaking  of  the  harp  while  yet  the  golden 
chords  have  yielded  but  their  least  of  melodies,  to  a  restless 
fulness  of  life,  the  imprisoned  vapor  that  bursts  the  vessel. 
This  appears  with  pathetic  emphasis  in  the  Introduction  that 
he  wrote,  not  long  before  his  death,  for  a  projected  volume 
of  tales  and  fantasies.  He  felt  that  he  must  rid  his  fevered 
brain  of  their  importunity,  but  he  had  begun  to  give  expres- 
sion to  only  one.  The  Woman  of  Stone,  when  death  broke 
the  magic  pen.  The  story  remains  a  fragment,*  not  passing 
beyond  its  opening  pages  of  rich  artistic  description,  nor  can 
its  course  be  clearly  conjectured  even  though  in  The  Kiss, 
and  in  the  closing  passages  of  his  Literary  Letters  to  a 
Woman,\i\s  imagination  hovers  about  the  theme.  He  left, 
like  Hawthorne,  many  tantalizing  titles  that  suggest  the 
greatness  of  our  loss.  That  drama  on  "  The  Brothers  of 
Sorrow,"  that  poem  on  the  discovery  of  America,  those 
Andalusian  novels  on  "  The  Last  Minstrel,"  "  To  Live  or  Not 
to  Live,"  those  Toledo  legends  on  "  The  Foundress  of  Con- 

*  And  therefore  has  not  been  Included  in  this  volume. 


xxvi  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

vents,"  "  El  Crista  de  la  Vega"  "  The  Angel  Musicians," 
those  fantasies  on  "Light  and  Snow,"  "  The  Diana  of  the 
Indies,"  "  The  Life  of  the  Dead," — these  are  but  a  few  of 
the  conceptions  that  teemed  in  his  mind  but  found  no  out- 
let to  the  world.  It  seemed  to  his  friends,  who  knew  the 
man  and  had  listened  to  his  marvellous  talk,  that  the  scanty- 
handful  of  tales  they  could  collect  from  newspapers  here  and 
there  made  so  inadequate  a  showing  as  almost  to  misrepre- 
sent his  powers.  Yet  however  thwarted  and  wronged  by 
circumstance  this  harvest  of  his  imagination  may  be,  it 
deserves  attention  if  only  for  its  finer  and  less  obvious 
qualities.  Becquer  charges  himself  with  a  melancholy  tem- 
perament, and  seldom,  in  fact,  do  we  find  in  these  pages  the 
blither  humor  playing  in  The  Set  of  Emeralds ;  but  the 
occasional  morbidness  of  his  tone  is  due  rather,  it  would 
seem,  to  illness  and  its  consequent  despondency  than  to  any 
native  quality  of  his  thought.  He  deals  too  much  in  the 
horrible  for  modern  taste,  but  he  cannot  claim,  like  Baude- 
laire, to  have  "invented  a  new  shudder."  Tales  grounded 
in  folk-lore  are  bound  to  contain  elements  of  superstitious 
terror,  and  the  affinity  of  these  legends  in  that  respect  is 
rather  with  German  balladry  and  the  earlier  romanticism  in 
general  than  with  the  genius  of  Poe.  Becquer's  truer  kin- 
ship is  with  Hawthorne,  whose  outer  faculty  of  close  and 
minute  observation  is  his  as  well  as  the  inner  preoccupation 
with  mysteiy  and  symbol.  All  the  senses  of  this  young 
Spaniard  seem  to  have  been  of  the  finest,  his  exquisite  hear- 
ing entering  into  these  tales  as  effectively  as  his  keen  sight ; 
but  he  is  most  himself  in  presence  of  the  dim,  the  fugitive, 
the  impalpable.  His  mind  was  essentially  mystical.  His 
religion  was  not  without  its  human  side.  In  brooding  on 
the  inequalities  of  the  mortal  lot,  he  finds  comfort  in  the  re- 
flection :  "  God,  though  invisible,  yet  holds  a  hand  outreached 
to  lift  a  little  the  burden  that  presses  on  the  poor."     But 


GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER  xxvii 

faith  in  him  was  of  the  very  fibre  of  imagination.  He  even 
lent  a  certain  sympathetic  credence  to  the  mediaeval  legends 
of  the  Church,  at  least  when  the  spell  of  Toledo  was  upon 
him.  "  Outside  the  place  that  guards  their  memory,"  he 
says,  "  far  from  the  precincts  which  still  preserve  their 
traces,  and  where  we  seem  yet  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of 
the  ages  that  gave  them  being,  traditions  lose  their  poetic 
mystery,  their  inexplicable  hold  upon  the  soul.  At  a  dis- 
tance we  question,  we  analyze,  we  doubt;  but  there  faith, 
like  a  secret  revelation,  illuminates  the  spirit,  and  we  be- 
lieve." In  a  letter  from  Veruela  to  a  lady  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, a  letter  relating  a  brief  but  lovely  legend*  of  an  ap- 
pearance of  the  Virgin,  he  asserts :  "  Only  the  hand  of  faith 
can  touch  the  delicate  flowers  of  tradition."  "God,"  he 
elsewhere  says,  "  is  the  glowing,  eternal  centre  of  all 
beauty." 

The  writer  of  these  tales  described  himself  thus:  "  I  have 
a  special  predilection  for  all  that  which  cannot  be  vulgarized 
by  the  touch  and  the  judgment  of  the  indifferent  multitude. 
If  I  were  to  paint  landscapes,  I  would  paint  them  without 
figures.  I  like  the  fleeting  ideas  that  slip  away  without 
leaving  a  trace  on  the  understandings  of  practical  folk,  like 
a  drop  of  water  over  a  marble  shelf.  In  the  cities  I  visit,  I 
seek  the  narrow,  lonely  streets ;  in  the  edifices  I  examine, 
the  dusky  nooks  and  corners  of  the  inner  courts,  where 
grass  springs  up,  and  moisture  enriches  with  its  patches  of 
greenish  color  the  parched  tint  of  the  wall ;  in  the  women 
who  impress  me,  the  liint  of  mystery  that  I  think  I  see  shin- 
ing with  wavering  light  in  the  depths  of  their  eyes,  like  the 
glimmer  of  a  lamp  that  burns  unknown  and  unsuspected  in 
the  sanctuary  of  their  hearts ;  even  in  the  blossoms  of  a 
shrub,  I  believe  there  is  for  me  something  more  potent  and 

*  Not  included  in  this  volume  because  it  should  not  be  taken  from 
its  context. 


xxviii  GUST  A  VO  ADOLFO  BECQUER 

exciting  in  the  one  that  hides  beneath  the  leaves  and  there, 
concealed,  fills  the  air  with  fragrance,  unprofaned  by  human 
gaze.  In  all  this  I  find  a  certain  unsullied  purity  of  feelings' 
and  of  things.'* 

Becquer  goes  on  to  admit  that  this  "  pronounced  inclina- 
tion sometimes  degenerates  into  extravagances." 


I 


FOREWORD 

In  dim  corners  of  my  mind  there  sleep,  hidden  away  and 
naked,  the  freakish  children  of  my  imagination,  waiting  in 
silence  for  art  to  clothe  them  with  language  that  it  may 
present  them  in  decency  upon  the  stage  of  the  world. 

My  Muse,  as  fruitful  as  the  marriage-bed  of  poverty,  and 
like  those  parents  who  bring  to  birth  more  children  than  they 
have  means  to  rear,  is  ever  conceiving  and  bearing  in  the 
mystic  sanctuary  of  the  intelligence,  peopling  it  with  innu- 
merable creations,  to  which  not  my  utmost  effort  nor  all  the 
years  that  are  left  to  me  of  life,  will  be  sufficient  to  give 
form. 

And  here  within  me  I  sometimes  feel  them,  all  unclad  and 
shapeless  as  they  are,  huddled  and  twisted  together  in  con- 
fusion indescribable,  stirring  and  living  with  a  dim,  strange 
life,  similar  to  that  of  those  myriad  germs  which  seethe  and 
quiver  in  eternal  generation  within  the  secret  places  of  the 
earth,  without  winning  strength  enough  to  reach  the  surface 
and  transform  themselves,  at  the  kiss  of  the  sun,  into  flowers 
and  fruits. 

They  go  with  me,  destined  to  die  with  me,  leaving  no  more 
trace  than  is  left  by  a  midnight  dream  which  the  morning 
cannot  recall.  On  certain  occasions  and  in  face  of  this 
terrible  idea,  there  rises  in  them  the  instinct  of  life,  and 
trooping  in  formidable  though  silent  multitudes  they  seek 
tumultuously  a  way  of  escape  from  amid  the  shadows  of 
their  dwelling-place  forth  to  the  light.  But  alas !  between 
the  world  of  idea  and  the  world  of  form  yawns  an  abyss 
which  only  the  word   can  bridge,  and   the  word,  timid  and 

I 


2  FOREWORD 

slothful,  refuses  to  aid  their  efforts.  Mute,  dim  and  power- 
less, after  the  unavailing  struggle  they  fall  back  into  their 
old  passivity.  So  fall,  inert,  into  the  hollows  by  the  wayside, 
when  the  wind  ceases,  the  yellow  leaves  which  the  autumn 
storm  blew  up. 

These  seditions  on  the  part  of  the  rebel  sons  of  my  ima- 
gination explain  some  of  my  attacks  of  fever ;  they  are  the 
cause,  unrecognized  by  science,  of  my  excitements  and  de- 
pressions. And  thus,  although  in  ill  estate,  have  I  lived 
till  now,  walking  among  the  indifferent  throngs  of  men  with 
this  silent  tempest  in  my  head.  Thus  have  I  lived  till  now, 
but  all  things  reach  an  end,  and  to  these  must  be  put  their 
period. 

Sleeplessness  and  fantasy  go  on  begetting  and  producing 
with  monstrous  fecundity.  Their  creations,  crowded  already 
like  the  feeble  plants  of  a  conservatory,  strive  one  with  an- 
other for  the  expanding  of  their  unreal  existences,  fighting 
for  the  drops  of  memory  as  for  the  scanty  moisture  of  a 
sterile  land.  It  is  needful  to  open  a  channel  for  the  deep 
waters,  which,  daily  fed  from  a  living  spring,  will  at  last  break 
down  the  dike. 

Go  forth,  then  !  Go  forth  and  live  with  the  only  life  I  can 
give  you.  My  intellect  shall  supply  you  with  nutriment 
enough  to  make  you  palpable;  I  will  clothe  you,  though  in 
rags,  so  that  you  need  not  blush  for  nakedness.  I  would 
like  to  fashion  for  each  one  of  you  a  marvellous  stuff  woven 
of  exquisite  phrases,  in  which  you  could  fold  yourselves  with 
pride,  as  in  mantles  of  purple.  I  would  like  to  engrave  the 
form  that  must  contain  you  as  the  golden  vase  which  holds 
a  precious  ointment  is  engraved.     But  this  may  not  be. 

And  yet,  I  need  to  rest.  I  need,  just  as  the  body  through 
whose  swollen  veins  the  life-blood  surges  with  phlethoric 
force,  is  bled,  to  clear  my  brain,  inadequate  to  the  lodging  of 
so  many  grotesqueries. 


FOREWORD  3 

Then  gather  here,  like  the  misty  trail  that  marks  the 
passing  of  an  unknown  comet,  like  atoms  dispersed  in  an 
embryonic  world  which  Death  fans  through  the  air,  until  the 
Creator  shall  have  spoken  the  fiat  hex  that  divides  light 
from  darkness. 

I  would  not  that  in  my  sleepless  nights  you  still  should 
pass  before  my  eyes  in  weird  procession,  begging  me  with 
gestures  and  contortions  to  draw  you  out  from  the  limbo  in 
which  you  lead  these  phantom,  thin  existences  into  the  life 
of  reality.  I  would  not  that  at  the  breaking  of  this  harp 
already  old  and  cracked  the  unknown  notes  which  it  con- 
tained should  perish  with  the  instrument.  I  would  interest 
myself  a  little  in  the  world  which  lies  without  me,  free  at 
last  to  withdraw  my  eyes  from  this  other  world  that  I  carry 
within  my  head.  Common  sense,  which  is  the  barrier  of 
dreamland,  is  beginning  to  give  way,  and  the  people  of  the 
different  camps  mingle  and  grow  confused.  It  costs  me  an 
effort  to  know  which  things  I  have  dreamed  and  which  have 
actually  happened.  My  affections  are  divided  between  real 
persons  and  phantasms  of  the  imagination.  My  memory 
shifts  from  one  category  to  the  other  the  names  of  women 
who  have  died  and  the  dates  of  days  that  have  passed,  with 
days  and  women  that  have  existed  only  in  my  mind.  I  must 
put  an  end  to  this  by  flinging  you  all  forth  from  my  brain 
once  and  forever. 

If  to  die  is  to  sleep,  I  would  sleep  in  peace  in  the  night  of 
death,  without  your  coming  to  be  my  nightmare,  cursing  me 
for  having  doomed  you  to  nothingness  before  you  had  been 
born.  Go,  then,  to  the  world  at  whose  touch  you  came  into 
being,  and  linger  there,  as  the  echo  which  life's  joys  and 
griefs,  hopes  and  struggles,  found  in  one  soul  that  passed 
across  the  earth. 

Perchance  very  soon  must  I  pack  my  portmanteau  for  the 
great  journey.     At  any  moment  the  spirit  may  free  herself 


4  FOREWORD 

from  the  material  that  she  may  rise  to  purer  air.  I  would 
not,  when  this  moment  comes,  take  with  me,  as  the  trivial 
baggage  of  a  mountebank,  the  treasure  of  tinsel  and  tatters 
that  my  Fancy  has  been  heaping  up  in  the  rubbish  chambers 
of  the  brain. 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST 

In  Seville,  in  the  very  portico  of  Santa  Ines,  and  while, 
on  Christmas  Eve,  I  was  waiting  for  the  Midnight  Mass 
to  begin,  I  heard  this  tradition  from  a  lay-sister  of  the 
convent. 

As  was  natural,  after  hearing  it,  I  waited  impatiently 
for  the  ceremony  to  commence,  eager  to  be  present  at  a 
miracle. 

Nothing  could  be  less  miraculous,  however,  than  the  organ 
of  Santa  Ines,  and  nothing  more  vulgar  than  the  insipid 
motets  with  which  that  night  the  organist  regaled  us. 

On  going  out  from  the  mass,  I  could  not  resist  asking  the 
lay-sister  mischievously : 

"  How  does  it  happen  that  the  organ  of  Master  Perez  is 
so  unmusical  at  present  ?  "  ^ 

"  Why  !  "  replied  the  old  woman.     "  Because  it  isn't  his." 

"  Not  his  ?     What  has  become  of  it  ?  " 

"  It  fell  to  pieces  from  sheer  old  age,  a  number  of  years 
ago." 

"  And  the  soul  of  the  organist  ?  " 

"  It  has  not  appeared  again  since  the  new  organ  was  set 
up  in  place  of  his  own." 

If  anyone  of  my  readers,  after  perusing  this  history,  should 
be  moved  to  ask  the  same  question,  now  he  knows  why  the 
notable  miracle  has  not  continued  into  our  own  time. 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


"  Do  you  see  that  man  with  the  scarlet  cloak  and  the 
white  plume  in  his  hat, — the  one  who  seems  to  wear  on  his 
waistcoat  all  the  gold  of  the  galleons  of  the  Indies, — that 
man,  I  mean,  just  stepping  down  from  his  litter  to  give  his 
hand  to  the  lady  there,  who,  now  that  she  is  out  of  hers, 
is  coming  our  way,  preceded  by  four  pages  with  torches  ? 
Well,  that  is  the  Marquis  of  Moscoso,  suitor  to  the  widowed 
Countess  of  Villapineda.  They  say  that  before  setting  his 
eyes  upon  this  lady,  he  had  asked  in  marriage  the  daughter 
of  a  man  of  large  fortune,  but  the  girl's  father,  of  whom  the 
rumor  goes  that  he  is  a  bit  of  a  miser, — but  hush  1  Speaking 
of  the  devil — do  you  see  that  man  coming  on  foot  under  the 
arch  of  San  Felipe,  all  muffled  up  in  a  dark  cloak  and  at- 
tended by  a  single  servant  carrying  a  lantern  ?  Now  he  is 
in  front  of  the  outer  shrine. 

*'  Do  you  notice,  as  his  cloak  falls  back  while  he  salutes 
the  image,  the  embroidered  cross  that  sparkles  on  his 
breast  ? 

"  If  it  were  not  for  this  noble  decoration,  one  would  take 
him  for  a  shop-keeper  from  Culebras  street.  Well,  that  is 
the  father  in  question.  See  how  the  people  make  way  for 
him  and  lift  their  hats. 

"  Everybody  in  Seville  knows  him  on  account  of  his  im- 
mense fortune.  That  one  man  has  more  golden  ducats  in 
his  chests  than  our  lord  King  Philip  maintains  soldiers,  and 
with  his  ^merchantmen  he  could  form  a  squadron  equal  to 
that  of  the  Grand  Turk 

"  Look,  look  at  that  group  of  stately  cavaliers  !  Those 
are  the  four  and  twenty  knights.  Aha,  aha  1  There  goes 
that  precious  Fleming,  too,  whom,  they  say,  the  gentlemen 
of  the  green  cross  have  not  challenged  for  heresy  yet,  thanks 
to  his  influence  with  the  magnates  of  Madrid.     All  he  comes 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST  7 

to  church  for  is  to  hear  the  music.  But  if  Master  Perez  does 
not  draw  from  him  with  his  organ  tears  as  big  as  fists,  then 
sure  it  is  that  his  soul  isn't  under  his  doublet,  but  sizzles  in 
the  Devil's  frying-pan.  Alack,  neighbor  !  Trouble,  trouble  ! 
I  fear  there  is  going  to  be  a  fight.  I  shall  take  refuge  in 
the  church ;  for,  from  what  I  see,  there  will  be  hereabouts 
more  blows  than  Pater  Nosters.  Look,  look  !  The  Duke  of 
Alcala's  people  are  coming  round  the  corner  of  San  Pedro's 
square,  and  I  think  I  spy  the  Duke  of  Medinasidonia's  men 
in  Duenas  alley.     Didn't  I  tell  you? 

"  Now  they  have  caught  sight  of  each  other,  now  the  two 
parties  stop  short,  without  breaking  their  order,  the  groups 
of  bystanders  dissolve,  the  police,  who  on  these  occasions 
get  pounded  by  both  sides,  slip  away ,\ even  the  prefect,  staff 
of  office  and  all,  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  portico, — and  yet 
they  say  that  there  is  law  to  be  had. 

"  For  the  poor 

"  There,  there  1  already  shields  are  shining  through  the 
dark.  Our  Lord  Jesus  of  All  Power  deliver  us !  Now 
the  blows  are  beginning.  Neighbor,  neighbor !  this  way 
— before  they  close  the  doors.  But  hush  !  What  is  this  ? 
Hardly  have  they  begun  when  they  leave  off.  What  light  is 
that  ?  Blazing  torches  1  A  litter  !  It's  His  Reverence  the 
Bishop. 

"  The  most  holy  Virgin  of  Protection,  on  whom  this  very 
instant  I  was  calling  in  my  heart,  brings  him  to  my  aid. 
Ah  1  But  nobody  knows  what  I  owe  to  that  Blessed  Lady, — 
how  richly  she  pays  me  back  for  the  little  candles  that  I 
burn  to  her  every  Saturday. — See  him  1  How  beautiful  he 
is  with  his  purple  vestments  and  his  red  cardinal's  cap  1 
God  preserve  him  in  his  sacred  chair  as  many  centuries  as 
I  wish  to  live  myself  !  If  it  were  not  for  him,  half  Seville 
would  have  been  burned  up  by  this  time  with  these  quarrels 
of  the  dukes.     See  them,  see  them,  the  great  hypocrites,  how 


8  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

they  both  press  close  to  the  litter  of  the  prelate  to  kiss  his 
ring !  How  they  drop  behind  and,  mingling  with  his  house- 
hold attendants,  follow  in  his  train  I  Who  would  dream  that 
those  two  who  appear  on  such  good  terms,  if  within  the  half 
hour  they  should  meet  in  a  dark  street — that  is,  the  dukes 
themselves — God  deliver  me  from  thinking  them  cowards ; 
good  proof  have  they  given  of  valor,  warring  more  than  once 
against  the  enemies  of  Our  Lord  ;  but  the  truth  remains,  that 
if  they  should  seek  each  other — and  seek  with  the  wish  to 
find — they'would  find  each  other,  putting  end  once  for  all 
to  these  continuous  scuffles,  in  which  those  who  really  do 
the  fighting  are  their  kinsmen,  their  friends  and  their 
servants. 

"  But  come,  neighbor,  come  into  the  church,  before  it  is 
packed  full.  Some  nights  like  this  it  is  so  crowded  that  there 
is  not  room  left  for  a  grain  of  wheat.  The  nuns  have  a  prize 
in  their  organist.  When  has  the  convent  ever  been  in  such 
high  favor  as  now  ?  I  can  tell  you  that  the  other  sisterhoods 
have  made  Master  Perez  magnificent  offers,  but  there  is 
nothing  strange  about  that,  for  the  Lord  Archbishop  himself 
has  offered  him  mountains  of  gold  to  entice  him  to  the  cathe- 
dral,— but  he,  not  a  bit  of  it !  He  would  sooner  give  up  his 
life  than  his  beloved  organ.  You  don't  know  Master  Pe'rez  ? 
True  enough,  you  are  a  newcomer  in  this  neighborhood. 
Well,  he  is  a  saint;  poor,  but  the  most  charitable  man  alive. 
With  no  other  relative  than  his  daughter  and  no  other  friend 
than  his  organ,  he  devotes  all  his  life  to  watching  over  the 
innocence  of  the  one  and  patching  up  the  registers  of  the 
other.  Mind  that  the  organ  is  old.  But  that  counts  for 
nothing,  he  is  so  handy  in  mending  it  and  caring  for  it  that 
its  sound  is  a  marvel.  For  he  knows  it  so  perfectly  that 
only  by  touch, — for  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  told  you  the 
4)Oor  gentleman  is  blind_  from  his  birth.  And  how  patiently 
he  bears  his  misfortune  1     When  people  ask  him  how  much 


/        MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST  9 

he  would  give  to  see,  he  replies  :  '  Much,  but  not  as  much  as 
you  think,  for  I  have  hopes.*  '  Hopes  of  seeing  ?  *  *  Yes, 
and  very  soon,'  he  adds,  smiling  like  an  angel.  'Already  I 
number  seventy-six  years  ;  however  long  my  life  may  be,  soon 
I  shall  see  God.' 

"  Poor  dear  1  And  he  will  see  Him,  for  he  is  humble  as 
the  stones  of  the  street,  which  let  all  the  world  trample  on 
them.  He  always  says  that  he  is  only  a  poor  convent  or- 
ganist, when  the  fact  is  he  could  give  lessons  in  harmony  to 
the  very  chapel  master  of  the  Cathedral,  for  he  was,  as  it 

^^were,  born  to  the  art.  His  father  held  the  same  position 
before  him ;  I  did  not  know  the  father,  but  my  mother — God 
rest  her  soul ! — says  that  he  always  had  the  boy  at  the  organ 
with  him  to  blow  the  bellows.  Then  the  lad  developed  such 
talent  that,  as  was  natural,  he  succeeded  to  the  position  on 

V  the  death  of  his  father.  And  what  a  touch  is  in  his  hands, 
God  bless  them  !  They  deserve  to  be  taken  to  Chicarreros 
street  and  there  enchased  in  gold.  He  always  plays  well, 
always,  but  on  a  night  like  this  he  is  a  wonder.  He  has  the 
greatest  devotion  for  this  ceremony  of  the  Midnight  Mass, 
and  when  the  Host  is  elevated,  precisely  at  twelve  o'clock, 
which  is  the  moment  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  came  into  the 
world,  the   tones   of   his  organ  are  the  voices  of  angels. 

"  But,  after  all,  why  should  I  praise  to  you  what  you  will 
hear  to-night  ?  It  is  enough  to  see  that  all  the  most  distin- 
guished people  of  Seville,  even  the  Lord  Archbishop  himself, 
come  to  a  humble  convent  to  listen  to  him  ;  and  don't  sup- 
pose that  it  is  only  the  learned  people  and  those  who  are 
versed  in  music  that  appreciate  his  genius,  but  the  very 
rabble  of  the  streets.  All  these  groups  that  you  see  arriving 
with  pine-torches  ablaze,  chorusing  popular  songs,  broken  by 
rude  outcries,  to  the  accompaniment  of  timbrels,  tambourines 
and  rustic  drums,  these,  contrary  to  their  custom,  which  is  to 
make  disturbance  in  the  churches,  are  still  as  the  dead  when 


lo  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Master  Perez  lays  his  hands  upon  the  organ,  and  when  the 
Host  is  elevated,  you  can't  hear  a  fly  ;  great  tears  roll  down 
from  the  eyes  of  all,  and  at  the  end  is  heard  a  sound  like  an 
immense  sigh,  which  is  nothing  else  than  the  expulsion  of 
the  breath  of  the  multitude,  held  in  while  the  music  lasts. 
But  come,  come !  The  bells  have  stopped  ringing,  and  the 
mass  is  going  to  begin.     Come  inside. 

"  This  night  is  Christmas  Eve  for  all  the  world,  but  for 
nobody  more  than  for  us." 

So  saying,  the  good  woman  who  had  been  acting  as  cicerone 
for  her  neighbor  pressed  through  the  portico  of  the  Convent 
of  Santa  Ines,  and  by  dint  of  elbowing  and  pushing  succeeded 
in  getting  inside  the  church,  disappearing  amid  the  multitude 
which  thronged  the  inner  spaces  near  the  doors. 

II. 

The  church  was  illuminated  with  astonishing  brilliancy. 
The  flood  of  light  which  spread  from  the  altars  through  all 
its  compass  sparkled  on  the  rich  jewels  of  the  ladies  who, 
kneeling  on  the  velvet  cushions  placed  before  them  by  their 
pages  and  taking  their  prayer-books  from  the  hands  of  their 
duennas,  formed  a  brilliant  circle  around  the  choir-screen. 
Grouped  just  behind  them,  on  foot,  wrapped  in  bright-lined 
cloaks  garnished  with  gold-lace,  with  studied  carelessness 
letting  glimpses  of  their  red  and  green  crosses  be  seen,  in 
one  hand  the  hat,  whose  plumes  kissed  the  carpet,  the  other 
hand  resting  upon  the  polished  hilt  of  a  rapier  or  caressing 
the  handle  of  an  ornate  dagger,  the  four  and  twenty  knights, 
with  a  large  proportion  of  the  highest  nobility  of  Seville, 
seemed  to  form  a  wall  for  the  purpose  of  protecting  their 
daughters  and  their  wives  from  contact  with  the  populace. 
This,  swaying  back  and  forth  at  the  rear  of  the  nave,  with  a 
murmur  like  that  of  a  surging  sea,  broke  out  into  a  joyous 
acclaim,   accompanied    by   the   discordant   sounds   of    the 


OF 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST  1 1 

timbrels  and  tambourines,  at  the  appearance  of  the  arch- 
bishop, who,  after  seating  himself,  surrounded  by  his  at- 
tendants, near  the  High  Altar  under  a  scarlet  canopy,  thrice 
blessed  the  assembled  people. 

It  was  time  for  the  mass  to  begin. 

There  passed,  nevertheless,  several  minutes  without  the 
appearance  of  the  celebrant.  The  throng  commenced  to  stir 
about  impatiently ;  the  knights  exchanged  low-toned  words 
with  one  another,  and  the  archbishop  sent  one  of  his  at- 
tendants to  the  sacristy  to  inquire  the  cause  of  the  delay. 

"  Master  Perez  has  been  taken  ill,  vefy  ill,  and  it  will  be 
impossible  for  him  to  come  to  the  Midnight  Mass." 

This  was  the  word  brought  back  by  the  attendant. 

The  news  spread  instantly  through  the  multitude.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  depict  the  dismay  which  it  caused ; 
suffice  it  to  say  that  such  a  clamor  began  to  arise  in  the 
church  that  the  prefect  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  the  police 
came  in  to  enforce  silence,  mingling  with  the  close-pressed, 
surging  crowd. 

At  that  moment,  a  man  with  unpleasant  features,  thin,  bony, 
and  cross-eyed,  too,  hurriedly  made  his  way  to  the  place  where 
the  prelate  was  sitting. 

"  Master  Perez  is  sick,"  he  said.  "  The  ceremony  cannot 
begin.  If  it  is  your  pleasure,  I  will  play  the  organ  in  his 
absence ;  for  neither  is  Master  Perez  the  first  organist  of  the 
world,  nor  at  his  death  need  this  instrument  be  left  unused 
for  lack  of  skill." 

The  archbishop  gave  a  nod  of  assent,  and  already  some  of 
the  faithful,  who  recognized  in  that  strange  personage  an 
envious  rival  of  the  organist  of  Santa  Ines,  were  breaking 
out  in  exclamations  of  displeasure,  when  suddenly  a  startling 
uproar  was  heard  in  the  portico. 

"  Master  Perez  is  here  !     Master  P^rez  is  here  1  '* 


12  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

At  these  cries  from  the  press  in  the  doorway,  every  one 
looked  around. 

Master  Perez,  his  face  pallid  and  drawn,  was  in  fact  en-' 
tering  the  church,  brought  in  a  chair  about  which  all  were 
contending  for  the  honor  of  carrying  it  upon  their  shoulders. 

The  commands  of  the  physicians,  the  tears  of  his  daughter 
had  not  been  able  to  keep  him  in  bed. 

"  No,"  he  had  said.  "  This  is  the  end,  I  know  it,  I  know 
it,  and  I  would  not  die  without  visiting  my  organ,  and  this 
night  above  all,  Christmas  Eve.  Come,  I  wish  it,  I  command 
it ;  let  us  go  to  the  church." 

His  desire  had  been  fulfilled.  The  people  carried  him  in 
their  arms  to  the  organ-loft,  and  the  mass  began. 

At  that  instant  the  cathedral  clock  struck  twelve. 

The  introit  passed,  and  the  Gospel,  and  the  offertory,  and 
then  came  the  solemn  moment  in  which  the  priest,  after  hav- 
ing blessed  the  Sacred  Wafer,  took  it  in  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
and  began  to  elevate  it. 

A  cloud  of  incense,  rolling  forth  in  azure  waves,  filled  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  church ;  the  little  bells  rang  out 
with  silvery  vibrations,  and  Master  Perez  placed  his  quiver- 
ing hands  upon  the  keys  of  the  organ. 

The  hundred  voices  of  its  metal  tubes  resounded  in  a  pro- 
longed, majestic  chord,  which  died  away  little  by  little,  as  if 
a  gentle  breeze  had  stolen  its  last  echoes. 

To  this  opening  chord,  that  seemed  a  voice  lifted  from 
earth  to  heaven,  responded  a  sweet  and  distant  note,  which 
went  on  swelling  and  swelling  in  volume  until  it  became  a 
torrent  of  pealing  harmony. 

It  was  the  song  of  the  angels,  which,  traversing  the  ethe- 
real spaces,  had  reached  the  world. 

Then  there  began  to  be  heard  a  sound  as  of  far-off  hymns 
entoned  by  the  hierarchies  of  seraphim,  a  thousand  hymns  at 
once,  melting  into  one,  which,  nevertheless,  was  no  more 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST  I- 

fthan  accompaniment  to  a  strange  melody, — a  melody  that 
seemed  to  float  above  that  ocean  of  mysterious  echoes  as  a 
strip  of  fog  above  the  billows  of  the  sea. 

One  anthem  after  another  died  away  ;  the  movement  grew 
simpler ;  now  there  were  but  two  voices,  whose  echoes 
blended ;  then  one  alone  remained,  sustaining  a  note  as 
brilliant  as  a  thread  of  light.  The  priest  bowed  his  face, 
and  above  his  gray  head,  across  an  azure  mist  made  by  the 
smoke  of  the  incense,  appeared  to  the  eyes  of  the  faithful 
the  uplifted  Host.  At  that  instant  the  thrilling  note  which 
Master  Perez  was  holding  began  to  swell  and  swell  until  an 
outburst  of  colossal  harmony  shook  the  church,  in  whose 
corners  the  straitened  air  vibrated  and  whose  stained  glass 
shivered  in  its  narrow  Moorish  embrasures. 

From  each  of  the  notes  forming  that  magnificent  chord  a 
theme  was  developed, — some  near,  some  far,  these  keen, 
those  muffled,  until  one  would  have  said  that  the  waters  and 
the  birds,  the  winds  and  the  woods,  men  and  angels,  earth 
and  heaven,  were  chanting,  each  in  its  own  tongue,  an  anthem 
of  praise  for  the  Redeemer's  birth. 

The  multitude  listened  in  amazement  and  suspense.  In 
all  eyes  were  tears,  in  all  spirits  a  profound  realization  of 
the  divine. 

The  officiating  priest  felt  his  hands  trembling,  for  the  Holy 
One  whom  they  upheld,  the  Holy  One  to  whom  men  and 
archangels  did  reverence,  was  God,  was  very  God,  and  it 
seemed  to  the  priest  that  he  had  beheld  the  heavens  open 
and  the  Host  become  transfigured. 

The  organ  still  sounded,  but  its  music  was  gradually  sink- 
ing away,  like  a  tone  dropping  from  echo  to  echo,  ever  more 
remote, ever  fainter  with  the  remoteness,  when  suddenly  a  cry 
rang  out  in  the  organ-loft,  shrill,  piercing,  the  cry  of  a  woman. 

The  organ  gave  forth  a  strange,  discordant  sound,  like  a 
sob,  and  then  was  still. 


14  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

The  multitude  surged  toward  the  stair  leading  up  to  the 
organ-loft,  in  whose  direction  all  the  faithful,  startled  out  of 
their  religious  ecstasy,  were  turning  anxious  looks. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  they 
asked  one  of  another,  and  none  knew  what  to  reply,  and  all 
strove  to  conjecture,  and  the  confusion  increased,  and  the 
excitement  began  to  rise  to  a  height  which  threatened  to  dis- 
turb the  order  and  decorum  fitting  within  a  church. 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  asked  the  great  ladies  of  the  prefect  who, 
attended  by  his  officers,  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  mount 
to  the  loft,  and  now,  pale  and  showing  signs  of  deep  grief, 
was  making  his  way  to  the  archbishop,  waiting  in  anxiety, 
like  all  the  rest,  to  know  the  cause  of  that  disturbance. ' 

"  What  has  occurred  ?  " 

"Master  Perez  has  just  died." 

In  fact,  when  the  foremost  of  the  faithful,  after  pressing 
up  the  stairway,  had  reached  the  organ-loft,  they  saw  the 
poor  organist  fallen  face  down  upon  the  keys  of  his  old 
instrument,  which  was  still  faintly  murmuring,  while  his 
daughter,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  was  vainly  calling  to  him  amid 
sighs  and  sobs. 

III. 

"  Good  evening,  my  dear  Dona  Baltasara.  Are  you,  too, 
going  to-night  to  the  Christmas  Eve  Mass  ?  For  my  part,  I 
was  intending  to  go  to  the  parish  church  to  hear  it,  but  after 
what  has  happened — '-'  where  goes  John  ?  With  all  the  town.' 
And  the  truth,  if  I  must  tell  it,  is  that  since  Master  Petez 
died,  a  marble  slab  seems  to  fall  on  my  heart  whenever  I  enter 
Santa  In^s. — Poor  dear  man  !  He  was  a  saint.  I  assure 
you  that  I  keep  a  piece  of  his  doublet  as  a  relic,  and  he  de- 
serves it,  for  by  God  and  my  soul  it  is  certain  that  if  our 
Lord  Archbishop  would  stir  in  the  matter,  our  grandchildren 
would  see  the  image  of  Master  Perez  upon  an  altar.     But 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST 


15 


what  hope  of  it  ?  *  The  dead  and  the  gone  are  let  alone.* 
We're  all  for  the  latest  thing  now-a-days  ;  you  understand 
me.  No  ?  You  haven't  an  inkling  of  what  has  happened  ? 
It's  true  we  are  alike  in  this, — from  house  to  church,  and 
from  church  to  house,  without  concerning  ourselves  about 
what  is  said  or  isn't  said — except  that  I,  as  it  were,  on  the 
wing,  a  word  here,  another  there,  without  the  least  curiosity 
whatever,  usually  run  across  any  news  that  may  be  going. 
Well,  then  !  It  seems  to  be  settled  that  the  organist  of  San 
Roman,  that  squint-eye,  who  is  always  throwing  out  slurs 
against  the  other  organists,  that  great  sloven,  who  looks 
more  like  a  butcher  from  the  slaughter-house  than  a  pro- 
fessor of  music,  is  going  to  play  this  Christmas  Eve  in  place 
of  Master  Perez.  Now  you  must  know,  for  all  the  world 
knows  and  it  is  a  public  matter  in  Seville,  that  nobody  was 
willing  to  attempt  it.  Not  even  his  daughter,  though  she  is 
herself  an  expert,  and  after  her  father's  death  entered  the 
convent  as  a  novice.  And  naturally  enough  ;  accustomed  to 
hear  those  marvellous  performances,  any  other  playing  what- 
ever must  seem  poor  to  us,  however  much  we  would  like  to 
avoid  comparisons.  But  no  sooner  had  the  sisterhood  de- 
cided that,  in  honor  of  the  dead  and  as  a  token  of  respect  to 
his  memory,  the  organ  should  be  silent  to-night,  than — look 
you ! — here  comes  along  our  modest  friend,  saying  that  he 
is  ready  to  play  it.  Nothing  is  bolder  than  ignorance.  It  is 
true  the  fault  is  not  so  much  his  as  theirs  who  have  con- 
sented to  this  profanation,  but  so  goes  the  world.  I 
say,  it's  no  trifle — this  crowd  that  is  coming.  One  would 
think  nothing  had  changed  since  last  year.  The  same  great 
people,  the  same  magnificence,  the  same  pushing  in  the 
doorway,  the  same  excitement  in  the  portico,  the  same  throng 
in  the  church.  Ah,  if  the  dead  should  rise,  he  would  die 
again  rather  than  hear  his  organ  played  by  hands  like  those. 
The  fact  is,  if  what  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  have 


1 6  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

told  me  is  true,  they  are  preparing  a  fine  reception  for  the 
intruder.  When  the  moment  comes  for  placing  the  hand 
upon  the  keys,  there  is  going  to  break  out  such  a  racket  of 
timbrels,  tambourines  and  rustic  drums  that  nothing  else  can 
be  heard.  But  hush !  there's  the  hero  of  the  occation  just 
going  into  the  church.  Jesus  !  what  a  showy  jacket,  what  a 
fluted  ruff,  what  a  high  and  mighty  air !  Come,  come,  the 
archbishop  ai^rived  a  minute  ago,  and  the  mass  is  going  to 
begin.  Come ;  it  looks  as  though  this  night  would  give  us 
something  to  talk  about  for  many  a  day." 

With  these  words  the  worthy  woman,  whom  our  readers 
recognize  by  her  dis^connected  loquacity,  entered  Santa  In^s, 
opening  a  way  through  the  press,  as  usual,  by  dint  of  shoving 
and  elbowing. 

Already  the  ceremony  had  begun. 

The  church  was  as  brilliant  as  the  year  before. 

The  new  organist,  after  passing  through  the  midst  of  the 
faithful  who  thronged  the  nave,  on  his  way  to  kiss  the  ring 
of  the  prelate,  had  mounted  to  the  organ-loft,  where  he  was 
trying  one  stop  of  the  organ  after  another  with  a  solicitous 
gravity  as  affected  as  it  was  ridiculous. 

Among  the  common  people  clustered  at  the  rear  of  the 
church ,  was  heard  a  murmur,  muffled  an.d  confused,  sure 
augury  of  the  coming  storm  which  would  not  be  long  in 
breaking. 

"  He's  a  clown,  who  doesn't  know  how  to  do  anything,  not 
even  to  look  straight,"  said  some. 

"  He's  an  ignoramus,  who  after  having  made  the  organ  in 
his  own  parish  church  worse  than  a  rattle  comes  here  to  pro- 
fane Master  Perez's,"  said  others. 

And  while  one  was  throwing  off  his  coat  so  as  to  beat  his 
drum  to  better  advantage;  and  another  was  trying  his  timbrels, 
and  the  clatter  was  increasing  more  and  more,  only  here  and 
there  could  one  be  found  to  defend  in  lukewarm  fashion  that 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST  17 

alien  personage,  whose  pompous  and  pedantic  bearing  formed 
so  strong  a  contrast  to  the  modest  manner  and  kindly  courtesy 
of  the  dead  Master  Pe'rez, 

At  last  the  looked-for  moment  came,  the  solemn  moment 
when  the  priest,  after  bowing  low  and  murmuring  the  sacred 
words,  took  the  Host  in  his  hands.  The  little  bells  rang  out, 
their  chime  like  a  rain  of  crystal  notes  ;  the  translucent  waves 
of  incense  rose,  and  the  organ  sounded. 

At  that  instant  a  horrible  din  filled  the  compass  of  the 
church,  drowning  the  first  chord. 

Bagpipes,  horns,  timbrels,  drums,  all  the  instruments  of 
the  populace  raised  their  discordant  voices  at  once,  but 
the  confusion  and  the  clang  lasted  but  a  few  seconds. 
All  at  once  as  the  tumult  had  begun,  so  all  at  once  it 
ceased. 

The  second  chord,  full,  bold,  magnificent,  sustained  itself, 
still  pouring  from  the  organ's  metal  tubes  like  a  cascade  of 
inexhaustible,  sonorous  harmony. 

Celestial  'songs  like  those  that  caress  the  ear  in  moments 
of  ecstasy,  songs  which  the  spirit  perceives  but  the  lip  can- 
not repeat ;  fugitive  notes  of  a  far-off  melody,  which  reach 
us  at  intervals,  sounding  in  the  bugles  of  the  wind  ;  the  rustle 
of  leaves  kissing  one  another  on  the  trees  with  a  murmur  like 
rain ;  trills  of  larks  which  rise  warbling  from  among  the 
flowers  like  a  flight  of  arrows  to  the  clouds  ;  nameless  crashes, 
overwhelming  as  the  thunders  of  a  tempest ;  a  chorus  of 
seraphim  without  rhythm  or  cadence,  unknown  harmony  of 
heaven  which  only  the  imagination  understands ;  soaring 
hymns,  that  seem  to  mount  to  the  throne  of  God  like  a  foun- 
tain of  light  and  sound — all  this  was  expressed  by  the  organ's 
hundred  voices,  with  more  vigor,  more  mystic  poetry,  more 
weird  coloring  than  had  ever  been  known  before. 

When  the  organist  came  down  from  the  loft,  the  crowd 


1 8  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

which  pressed  up  to  the  stairway  was  so  great,  and  their 
eagerness  to  see  and  praise  him  so  intense,  that  the  prefect, 
fearing,  and  not  witliout  reason,  that  he  would  be  suffo- 
cated among  them  all,  commanded  some  of  the  police  to 
open,  by  their  staves,  a  path  for  him  that  he  might  reach  the 
High  Altar  where  the  prelate  waited  his  arriVal. 

"  You  perceive,"  said  the  archbishop,  when  the  musician 
was  brought  into  his  presence,  "  that  I  have  come  all  the  way 
from  my  palace  hither  only  to  hear  you.  Will  you  be  as  cruel 
as  Master  Pe'rez,  who  would  never  save  me  the  journey  by 
playing  the  Midnight  Mass  in  the  cathedral  ?  " 

"  Next  year,"  responded  the  organist,  "  I  promise  to  give 
you  ''that  pleasure,  for  not  all  the  goTd  of  the  earth  would  in- 
duce me  to  play  this  organ  again." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  interrupted  the  prelate. 

"  Because,"  replied  the  organist,  striving  to  repress  the 
agitation  revealed  in  the  pallor  of  his  face, — "  because  it  is 
old  and  poor,  and  one  cannot  express  on  it  all  that  one 
would." 

The  archbishop  retired,  followed  by  his  attendants.  One 
by  one,  the  litters  of  the  great  folk  went  filing  away,  lost  to 
sight  in  the  windings  of  the  neighboring  streets ;  the  groups 
of  the  portico  melted,  as  the  faithful  dispersed  in  different 
directions;  and  already  the  lay-sister  who  acted  as  gate- 
keeper was  about  to  lock  the  vestibule  doors,  when  there 
appeared  two  women,  who,  after  crossing  themselves  and 
muttering  a  prayer  before  the  arched  shrine  of  Saint  Philip, 
went  their  way,  turning  into  Duenas  alley. 

"  What  would  you  have,  my  dear  Dona  Baltasara  ?  "  one 
of  them  was  saying.  "  That's  the  way  I'm  made.  Every 
fool  has  his  fancy.  The  barefooted  Capuchins  might  assure 
me  that  it  was  so  and  I  wouldn't  believe  it  in  the  least. 
That  man  cannot  have  played  what  we  have  just  been  hear- 
ing.    A  thousand  times  have  I  heard  him  in  San  Bartolom^, 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST  ig 

his  parish  church,  from  which  the  priest  had  to  send  him 
away  for  his  bad  playing, — enough  to  make  you  stop  your 
ears  with  cotton.  Besides,  all  you  need  is  to  look  at  his  face, 
which,  they  say,  is  the  mirror  of  the  soul.  I  remember,  poor 
dear  man,  as  if  I  were  seeing  him  now, — I  remember  Master 
Perez's  look  when,  on  a  night  like  this,  he  would  come  down 
from  the  organ  loft,  after  having  entranced  the  audience  with 
his  marvels.  What  a  gracious  smile,  what  a  happy  glow  on 
his  face  1  Old  as  he  was,  he  seemed  like  an  angel.  But  this 
fellow  came  plunging  down  the  stairs  as  if  a  dog  were  bark- 
ing at  him  on  the  landing,  his  face  the  color  of  the  dead,  and 
— come  now,  my  dear  Dona  Baltasara,  believe  me,  believe 
me  with  all  your  soul.     I  suspect  a  mystery  in  this." 

With  these  last  words,  the  two  women  turned  the  corner 
of  the  street  and  disappeared. 

We  count  it  needless  to  inform  our  readers  who  one  of 
them  was. 

IV. 

Another  year  had  gone  by.  The  abbess  of  the  convent 
of  Santa  Ines  and  the  daughter  of  Master  Perez,  half  hidden 
in  the  shadows  of  the  church  choir,  were  talking  in  low  tones. 
The  peremptory  voice  of  the  bell  was  calling  from  its  tower 
to  the  faithful,  and  occasionally  an  individual  would  cross 
the  portico,  silent  and  deserted  now,  and  after  taking  the 
holy  water  at  the  door,  would  choose  a  place  in  a  corner  of 
the  nave,  where  a  few  residents  of  the  neighborhood  were 
quietly  waiting  for  the  Midnight  Mass  to  begin. 

"  There,  you  see,"  the  mother  superior  was  saying,  "  your 
fear  is  excessively  childish.  There  is  nobody  in  the  church. 
All  Seville  is  trooping  to  the  cathedral  to-night.  Play  the 
organ  and  play  it  without  the  least  uneasiness.  We  are  only 
the  sisterhood  here.  Well  ?  Still  you  are  silent,  still  your 
breaths  are  like  sighs.     What  is  it  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 


20  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"  I  am — afraid,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  in  a  tone  of  the  deep- 
est agitation. 

"Afraid?     Of  what  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — of  something  supernatural.  Last  night, 
see,  I  had  heard  you  say  that  you  earnestly  wished  me  to 
play  the  organ  for  the  mass  and,  pleased  with  this  honor,  I 
thought  I  would  look  to  the  stops  and  tune  it,  so  as  to  give 
you  a  surprise  to-day.  I  went  into  the  choir — alone — I 
opened  the  door  which  leads  to  the  organ-loft.  At  that 
moment  the  clock  of  the  cathedral  struck  the  hour — what 
hour,  I  do  not  know.  The  peals  were  exceedingly  mournful, 
and  many — many.  They  kept  on  sounding  all  the  time  that 
I  stood  as  if  nailed  to  the  threshold,  and  that  time  seemed 
to  me  a  century. 

"  The  church  was  empty  and  dark.  Far  away,  in  the 
hollow  depth,  there  gleamed,  like  a  single  star  lost  in  the  sky 
of  night,  a  feeble  light,  the  light  of  the  lamp  which  burns  on 
the  High  Altar.  By  its  faint  rays,  which  only  served  to  make 
more  visible  all  the  deep  horror  of  the  darkness,  I  saw — I 
saw — mother,  do  not  disbelieve  it — I  saw  a  man  who,  in 
silence  and  with  his  back  turned  toward  the  place  where  I 
stood,  was  running  over  the  organ-keys  with  one  hand,  while 
he  tried  the  stops  with  the  other.  And  the  organ  sounded, 
but  it  sounded  in  a  manner  indescribable.  It  seemed  as  if 
each  of  its  notes  were  a  sob  smothered  within  the  metal  tube 
which  vibrated  with  its  burden  of  compressed  air,  and  gave 
forth  a  muffled  tone,  almost  inaudible,  yet  exact  and  true. 

"  And  the  cathedral  clock  kept  on  striking,  and  that  man 
kept  on  running  over  the  keys.     I  heard  his  very  breathing. 

"  The  horror  of  it  had  frozen  the  blood  in  my  veins.  In 
my  body  I  felt  an  icy  chill  and  in  my  temples  fire.,.  Then  I 
longed  to  cry  out,  but  could  not.  That  man  had  turned  his 
face  and  looked  at  me, — no,  not  looked  at  me,  for  he  was 
blind.     It  was  my  father." 


MASTER  PEREZ  THE  ORGANIST  21 

"  Bah,  sister  I  Put  away  these  fancies  with  which  the 
wicked  enemy  tries  to  trouble  weak  imaginations.  Pray  a 
Pater  Nosier  and  an  Ave  Maria  to  the  archangel  Saint 
Michael,  captain  of  the  celestial  hosts,  that  he  may  aid  you 
to  resist  the  evil  spirits.  Wear  on  your  neck  a  scapulary 
which  has  been  touched  to  the  relics  of  Saint  Pacomio,  our 
advocate  against  temptations,  and  go,  go  in  power  to  the 
organ-loft.  The  mass  is  about  to  begin,  and  the  faithful  are 
growing  impatient.  Your  father  is  in  heaven,  and  thence, 
instead  of  giving  you  a  fright,  he  will  descend  to  inspire  his 
daughter  in  this  solemn  service  which  he  so  especially 
loved." 

The  prioress  went  to  occupy  her  seat  in  the  choir  in  the 
centre  of  the  sisterhood.  The  daughter  of  IMaster  Perez 
opened  the  door  of  the  loft  with  trembling  hand,  sat  down  at 
the  organ,  and  the  mass  began. 

The  mass  began,  and  continued  without  any  unusual  oc- 
currence until  the  consecration.  Then  the  organ  sounded, 
and  at  the  same  time  came  a  scream  from  the  daughter  of 
Master  Perez. 

The  mother  superior,  the  nuns,  and  some  of  the  faithful 
rushed  up  to  the  organ-loft. 

'*  Look  at  him  !  look  at  him  !  "  cried  the  girl,  fixing  her 
eyes,  starting  from  their  sockets,  upon  the  organ-bench,  from 
which  she  had  risen  in  terror,  clinging  with  convulsed  hands 
to  the  railing  of  the  organ-loft. 

All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  spot  to  which  her  gaze  was 
turned.  No  one  was  at  the  organ,  yet  it  went  on  sounding 
— sounding  as  the  archangels  sing  in  their  raptures  of  mystic 
ecstasy. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  a  thousand  times,  my  dear  Dona 
Baltasara — didn't  I  tell  you  so?  There  is  a  mystery  here. 
What  ?     You  were  not  at  the  Christmas  Eve  Mass  last  night  ? 


22  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

But,  for  all  that,  yoii  must  know  what  happened.  Nothing 
else  is  talked  about  in  all  Seville.  The  archbishop  is  furious, 
and  with  good  reason.  To  have  missed  going  to  Santa  In^s 
— to  have  missed  being  present  at  the  miracle !  And  for 
what  ?  To  hear  a  charivari,  a  rattle-go-bang,  for  people  who 
heard  it  tell  me  that  what  the  inspired  organist  of  San  Bar- 
tolome  did  in  the  cathedral  was  just  that.  I  told  you  so. 
The  squint-eye  could  never  have  played  that  divine  music  of 
last  year,  never.  There  is  mystery  about  all  this,  a  mystery 
that  is,  in  truth,  the  soul  of  Master  Perez." 


THE  EMERALD  EYES 

For  a  long  time  I  have  desired  to  write  something  with 
this  title.  Now  that  the  opportunity  has  come,  I  have  in- 
scribed it  in  capital  letters  at  the  top  of  the  page  and  have 
let  my  pen  run  at  will. 

I  believe  that  I  have  seen  eyes  like  those  I  have  painted  in 
this  legend.  It  may  have  been  in  my  dreams,  but  I  have 
seen  them.  Too  true  it  is  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  de- 
scribe them  as  they  were,  luminous,  transparent  as  drops  of 
rain  slipping  over  the  leaves  of  the  trees  after  a  summer 
sh^H.  At  all  events,  I  count  upon  the  imagination  of  my 
re^^K  to  understand  me  in  what  we  might  call  a  sketch  for 
a  picture  which  I  will  paint  some  day. 

I. 

"  The  stag  is  wounded — he  is  wounded  ;  no  doubt  of  it. 
There  are  traces  of  his  yood  on  the  mountain  shrubs,  and 
in  trying  to  leap  one  of  those  mastic  trees  his  legs  failed 
him.  Our  young  lord  begins  where  others  end.  In  my  forty 
years  as  huntsman  I  have  not  seen  a  better  shot.  But  by 
Saint  Saturio,  patron  of  Soria,  cut  him  off  at  these  hollies, 
urge  on  the  dogs,  blow  the  horns  till  your  lungs  are  empty, 
and  bury  your  spurs  in  the  flanks  of  the  horses.  Do  you  not 
see  that  he  is  going  toward  the  fountain  of  the  Poplars,  and 
if  he  lives  to  reach  it  we  must  give  him  up  for  lost  ?  " 

The  glens  of  the  Moncayo  flung  from  echo  to  echo  the 
braying  of  the  horns  and  barking  of  the  unleashed  pack  of 
hounds ;  the  shouts  of  the  pages  resounded  with  new  vigor, 
while  the  confused  throng  of  men,  dogs  and  horses  rushed . 

23 


24 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


toward  the  point  which  Inigo,  the  head  huntsman  of  the 
Marquises  of  Almenar,  indicated  as  the  one  most  favorable 
for  intercepting  the  quarry. 

But  all  was  of  no  avail.  When  the  fleetest  of  the  grey- 
hounds reached  the  hollies,  panting,  its  jaws  covered  with 
foam,  already  the  deer,  swift  as  an  arrow,  had  cleared  them 
at  a  single  bound,  disappearing  among  the  thickets  of  a 
narrow  path  which  led  to  the  fountain. 

"  Draw  rein  1  draw  rein,  every  man  1  "  then  cried  Ifiigo. 
"  It  was  the  will  of  God  that  he  should  escape." 

And  the  troop  halted,  the  horns  fell  silent  and  the  hounds, 
at  the  call  of  the  hunters,  abandoned,  snarling,  the  trail. 

At  that  moment,  the  lord  of  the  festival,  Fernando  ,de 
Argensola,  the  heir  of  Almenar,  came  up  with  the  company. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  addressing  his 
huntsman,  astonishment  depicted  on  his  features,  anger 
burning  in  his  eyes.  "  What  are  you  doing,  idiot  ?  Do  you 
see  that  the  creature  is  wounded,  that  it  is  the  first  to  fall  by 
my  hand,  and  yet  you  abandon  the  pursuit  and  let  it  give 
you  the  slip  to  die  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  ?  Do  you  think 
perchance  that  I  have  come  to  kill  deer  for  the  banquets  of 
wolves  ? " 

"  Senory^  murmured  Inigo  between  his  teeth,  "  it  is  impos- 
sible to  pass  this  point." 

"  Impossible  1     And  why  ?  '* 

"  Because  this  path,"  continued  the  huntsman,  *'  leads  to 
the  fountain  of  the  Poplars,  the  fountain  of  the  Poplars  in 
whose  waters  dwells  an  evil  spirit.  He  who  dares  trouble  its 
flow  pays  dear  for  his  rashness.  Already  the  deer  will  have 
reached  its  borders ;  how  will  you  take  it  without  drav/ing 
on  your  head  some  fearful  calamity  ?  We  hunters  are  kings 
of  the  Moncayo,  but  kings  that  pay  a  tribute.  A  quarry 
which  takes  refuge  at  this  mysterious  fountain  is  a  quarry 
lost." 


^JS 


^^^;^ 


THE  EMERALD  EYES  25 

"Lost !  Sooner  will  I  lose  the  seigniory  of  my  fathers, 
sooner  will  I  lose  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  Satan  than  per- 
mit this  stag  to  escape  me,  the  only  one  my  spear  has 
wounded,  the  first  fruits  of  my  hunting.  Do  you  see  him  ? 
Do  you  see  him  ?  He  can  still  at  intervals  be  made  out 
from  here.  His  legs  falter,  his  speed  slackens ;  let  me  go, 
let  me  go  1  Drop  this  bridle  or  I  roll  you  in  the  dust ! 
Who  knows  if  I  will  not  run  him  down  before  he  reaches  the 
fountain  ?  And  if  he  should  reach  it,  to  the  devil  with  it,  its 
untroubled  waters  and  its  inhabitants !  On,  Lightning !  On, 
my  steed !  If  you  overtake  him,  I  will  have  the  diamonds 
of  my  coronet  set  in  a  headstall  all  of  gold  for  you.'* 

Horse  and  rider  departed  like  a  hurricane. 

Inigo  followed  them  with  his  eyes  till  they  disappeared  in 
the  brush.  Then  he  looked  about  him  :  all  like  himself  re- 
mained motionless,  in  consternation. 

The  huntsman  exclaimed  at  last : 

"  Senores,  you  are  my  witnesses.  1  exposed  myself  to 
death  under  his  horse's  hoofs  to  hold  him  back.,  I  have  ful- 
filled my  duty.  Against  the  devil  heroism  does  not  avail. 
To  this  point  comes  the  huntsman  with  his  crossbow ;  be- 
yond this,  it  is  for  the  chaplain  with  his  holy  water  to  attempt 
to  pass." 

IL 

"  You  are  pale ;  you  go  about  sad  and  gloomy.  What 
afflicts  you?  From  the  day,  which  I  shall  ever  hold  in 
hate,  on  which  you  went  to  the  fountain  of  the  Poplars  in 
chase  of  the  wounded  deer,  I  should  say  an  evil  sorceress 
had  bewitched  you  with  her  enchantments. 

"  You  do  not  go  to  the  mountains  now  preceded  by  the 
clamorous  pack  of  hounds,  nor  does  the  blare  of  your  horns 
awake  the  echoes.  Alone  with  these  brooding  fancies  which 
beset  you,  every  morning  you  take  your  crossbow  only  to 


26  ROMANTIC  LEGENLS  OF  SPAIN 

plunge  into  the  thickets  and  remain  there  until  the  sun  goes 
down.     And  when  night  darkens  and  you  return  to  the  castle, 
white  and  weary,  in  vain  I  seek  in  the  game-bag  the  spoils . 
of  the  chase.     What  detains  you  so  long  far  from  those  who 
love  you  most  ?  " 

While  Inigo  was  speaking,  Fernando,  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts,  mechanically  cut  splinters  from  the  ebony  bench 
with  his  hunting  knife. 

After  a  long  silence,  which  was  interrupted  only  by  the 
click  of  the  blade  as  it  slipped  over  the  polished  wood,  the 
young  man,  addressing  his  servant  as  if  he  had  not  heard  a 
single  word,  exclaimed : 

*'  liiigo,  you  who  are  an  old  man,  you  who  know  all  the 
haunts  of  the  Moncayo,  who  have  lived  on  its  slopes  pursu*. 
ing  wild  beasts  and  in  your  wandering  hunting  trips  have 
more  than  once  stood  on  its  summit,  tell  me,  have  you  ever 
by  chance  met  a  woman  who  dwells  among  its  rocks  ?  " 

"  A  woman  !  "  exclaimed  the  huntsman  with  astonishment, 
looking  closely  at  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  youth.  "  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  has 
happened  to  me,  very  strange.  I  thought  I  could  keep  this 
secret  always  ;  but  it  is  no  longer  possible.  It  overflows  my 
heart  and  begins  to  reveal  itself  in  my  face.  Therefore  I 
am  going  to  tell  it  to  you.  You  will  help  me  solve  the 
mystery  which  enfolds  this  being  who  seems  to  exist  only  for 
me,  since  no  one  knows  her  or  has  seen  her,  or  can  give  me 
any  account  of  her." 

The  huntsman,  without  opening  his  lips,  drew  forward  his 
stool  to  place  it  near  the  ebony  bench  of  his  lord  from  whom 
he  did  not  once  remove  his  affrighted  eyes.  The  youth, 
after  arranging  his  thoughts,  continued  thus : 

"  From  the  day  on  which,  notwithstanding  your  gloomy 
predictions,  I  went  to  the  fountain  of  the  Poplars,  and  cross- 
ing  its   waters   recovered   the  stag  which  your  superstition 


THE  EMERALD  EYES  \    27 

would  have  let  escape,  my  soul  has  been  filled  with  a  desire 
for  solitude. 

"  You  do  not  know  that  place.  See,  the  fountain  springs 
from  a  hidden  source  in  the  cavity  of  a  rock,  and  falls  in 
trickling  drops  through  the  green,  floating  leaves  of  the 
plants  that  grow  on  the  border  of  its  cradle.  These  drops, 
which  on  falling  glisten  like  points  of  gold  and  sound  like 
the  notes  of  a  musical  instrument,  unite  on  the  turf  and  mur- 
muring, murmuring  with  a  sound  like  that  of  bees  humming 
about  the  flowers,  glide  on  through  the  gravel,  and  forma 
rill  and  contend  with  the  obstacles  in  their  way,  and  gather  ~ 
volume  and  leap  and  flee  and  run,  sometimes  with  a  laugh, 
sometimes  with  sighs,  until  they  fall  into  a  lake.  Into  the 
lake  they  fall  with  an  indescribable  sound.  Laments, 
words,  names,  songs,  I  know  not  what  I  have  heard  in  that 
sound  when  I  have  sat,  alone  and  fevered,  upon  the  huge 
rock  at  whose  feet  the  waters  of  that  mysterious  fountain  leap 
to  bury  themselves  in  a  deep  pool  whose  still  surface  is 
scarcely  rippled  by  the  evening  wind. 

"  Everything  there  is  grand.  Solitude  with  its  thousand  I 
vague  murmurs  dwells  in  those  places  and  transports  the  ! 
mind  with  a  profound  melancholy.  In  the  silvered  leaves 
of  the  poplars,  in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks,  in  the  A\'aves  of 
the  water  it  seems  that  the  invisible  spirits  of  nature  talk 
with  us,  that  they  recognize  a  brother  in  the  immortal  soul 
of  man. 

**  When  at  break  of  dawn  you  would  see  me  take  my  cross- 
bow and  go  toward  the  mountain,  it  was  never  to  lose  my- 
self among  the  thickets  in  pursuit  of  game.  No,  I  went  to 
sit  on  the  rim  of  the  fountain,  to  seek  in  its  waves — I  know 
not  what — an  absurdity  !  The  day  I  leaped  over  it  on  my 
Lightning,  I  believed  I  saw  glittering  in  its  depths  a  marvel 
— truly  a  marvel — the  eyes  of  a  woman ! 

"  Perhaps   it   may  have   been    a  fugitive  ray  of  sunshine 


28  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

that  wound,  serpent  like,  through  the  foam  ;  perhaps  one 
of  those  flowers  which  float  among  the  weeds  of  its  bosom, 
flowers  whose  calyxes  seem  to  be  emeralds — I  do  not  know. 
I  thought  I  saw  a  gaze  which  fixed  itself  on  mine,  a  look 
which  kindled  in  my  breast  a  desire  absurd,  impossible  of 
realization,  that  of  meeting  a  person  with  eyes  like  those. 

"  In  my  search,  I  went  to  that  place  day  after  day. 

"  At  last,  one  afternoon — I  thought  myself  the  plaything 
of  a  dream — but  no,  it  is  the  truth  ;  I  have  spoken  with  her 
many  times  as  I  am  now  speaking  with  you — one  afternoon 
I  found,  sitting  where  I  had  sat,  clothed  in  a  robe  which 
reached  to  the  waters  and  floated  on  their  surface,  a  woman  - 
beautiful  beyond  all  exaggeration.  Her  hair  was  like  gold  ; 
her  eyelashes  shone  like  threads  of  light,  and  between  the 
lashes  flashed  the  restless  eyes  that  I  had  seen — yes  ;  for 
the  eyes  of  that  woman  were  the  eyes  which  I  bore  stamped 
upon  my  mind,  eyes  of  an  impossible  color,  the  color " 

"  Green  I  "  exclaimed  Inigo,  in  accents  of  profound  terror, 
starting  with  a  bound  from  his  seat. 

Fernando,  in  turn,  looked  at  him  as  if  astonished  that 
Inigo  should  supply  what  he  was  about  to  say,  and  asked 
him  with  mingled  anxiety  and  joy : 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  1  "  said  the  huntsman.  '*  God  save  me  from 
knowing  her !  But  my  parents,  on  forbidding  me  to  go 
toward  those  places,  told  me  a  thousand  times  that  the  spirit, 
goblin,  demon  or  w^oman,  who  dwells  in  those  waters,  has 
eyes  of  that  color.  I  conjure  you  by  that  w^hich  you  love 
most  on  earth  not  to  return  to  the  fountain  of  the  Poplars. 
One  day  or  another  her  vengeance  will  overtake  you,  and 
.  you  will  expiate  in  death  the  crime  of  having  stained  her 
waters." 

♦*  By  what  I  love  most  I  "  murmured  the  young  man  with 
a  sad  smile. 


THE  EMERALD  EYES  29 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  elder.  "  By  your  parents,  by  your 
kindred,  by  the  tears  of  her  whom  heaven  destines  for  your 
wife,  by  those  of  a  servant  who  watched  beside  your  cradle." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  love  most  in  this  world  ?  Do  you 
know  for  what  I  would  give  the  love  of  my  father,  the  kisses 
of  her  who  gave  me  life,  and  all  the  affection  which  all  the 
women  on  earth  can  hold  in  store  ?  For  one  look,  for  only 
one  look  of  those  eyes  I  How  can  I  leave  off  seeking 
them  ? " 

Fernando  said  these  words  in  such  a  tone  that  the  tear 
which  trembled  on  the  eyelids  of  Inigo  fell  silently  down  his 
cheek,  while  he  exclaimed  with  a  mournful  accent :  "  The 
will  of  Heaven  be  done  1  " 

III. 

"  Who  art  thou  ?  What  is  thy  fatherland  ?  Where  dost 
thou  dwell  ?  Day  after  day.  I  come  seeking  thee,  and  see 
neither  the  palfrey  that  brings  thee  hither,  nor  the  servants 
who  bear  thy  litter.  Rend  once  for  all  the  veil  of  mystery  in 
which  thou  dost  enfold  thyself  as  in  the  heart  of  night.  I 
love  thee  and,  highborn  or  lowly,  I  will  be  thine,  thine 
forever." 

The  sun  had  crossed  the  crest  of  the  mountain.  The 
shadows  were  descending  its  slope  with  giant  strides.  The 
breeze  sighed  amid  the  poplars  of  the  fountain.  The  mist, 
rising  little  by  little  from  the  surface  of  the  lake,  began-  to 
envelop  the  rocks  of  its  margin. 

Upon  one  of  these  rocks,  on  one  which  seemed  ready  to 
topple  over  into  the  depths  of  the  waters  on  whose  surface 
was  pictured  its  wavering  image,  the  heir  of  Almenar,  on  his 
knees  at  the  feet  of  his  mysterious  beloved,  sought  in  vain 
to  draw  from  her  the  secret  of  her  existence. 

She  was  beautiful,  beautiful  and  pallid  as  an  alabaster 
statue.     One  of  her. tresses  fell  over  her  shoulders,  entan- 


20  J  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


^ 


gling  itself  in  the  folds  of  her  veil  like  a  ray  of  sunlight 
passing  through  clouds;  and  her  eyes,  within  the  circle  of 
her  amber-colored  lashes,  gleamed  like  emeralds  set  in  fretted 
gold. 

When  the  youth  ceased  speaking,  her  lips  moved  as  for 
utterance,  but  only  exhaled  a  sigh,  a  sigh  soft  and  sorrow- 
ful like  that  of  the  gentle  wave  which  a  dying  breeze  drives 
among  the  rushes. 

"  Thou  answerest  not,"  exclaimed  Fernando,  seeing  his 
hope  mocked.  "  Wouldst  thou  have  me  credit  what  they 
have  told  me  of  thee  ? .  Oh,  no  1  Speak  to  me.  I  long  to 
know  if  thou  lovest  me  ;  I  long  to  know  if  I  may  love  thee, 
if  thou  art  a  woman " 

— "  Or  a  demon.     And  if  I  were  ?  " 

The  youth  hesitated  a  moment;  a  cold  sweat  ran  through 
his  limbs ;  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated,  fixing  themselves 
with  more  intensity  upon  those  of  that  woman  and,  fascinated 
by  their  phosphoric  brilliance,  as  though  demented  he  ex- 
claimed in  a  burst  of  passion  : 

*'  If  thou  wert,  I  should  love  thee.  .  I  should  love  thee  as  I 
love  thee  now,  as  it  is  my  destiny  to  love  thee  even  beyond 
this  life,  if  there  be  any  life  beyond." 

"  Fernando,"  said  the  beautiful  being  then,  in  a  voice  like 

music :  "  I  love  thee  even  more  than  thou  lovest  me  ;  in  that 

I,  who  am  pure  spirit,  stoop  to  a  mortal.     I  am  not  a  woman 

like  those  that  live  on  earth.     I  am  a  woman  worthy  of  thee 

who  art  superior  to  the  rest  of  humankind.     I  dwell  in  the 

i  depths  of  these  waters,  incorporeal  like  them,  fugitive  and 

j  transparent ;    I  speak  with  their  murmurs  and  move  with 

Vtheir  undulations.     I  do  not  punish  him  who  dares  disturb 

■   the  fountain  where  I  live  ;  rather  I  reward  him  with  my  love, 

as  a  mortal  superior  to  the  superstitions  of  the  common  herd, 

as  a  lover  capable  of  responding  to  my  strange  and  mysterious 

embrace." 


THE  EMERALD  EYES 


MoX: 


31 

While  she  was  speaking,  the  youth,  absorbed  in  the  contem- 
plation of  her  fantastic  beauty,  drawn  on  as  by  an  unknown 
force,  approached  nearer  and  nearer  the  edge  of  the  rock. 
The  woman  of  the  emerald  eyes  continued  thus : 

"  Dost  thou  behold,  behold  the  limpid  depths  of  this  lake, 
behold  these  plants  with  large,  green  leaves  \vhich  wave  in 
its  bosom  ?  They  will  give  us  a  couch  of  emeralds  and 
corals  and  I — I  will  give  thee  a  bliss  unnamable,  that  bliss 
which  thou  hast  dreamed  of  in  thine  hours  of  delirium,  and 
which  no  other  can  bestow. — Come !  the  mists  of  the  lake 
float  over  our  brows  like  a  pavilion  of  lawn,  the  waves  call  us 
with  their  incomprehensible  voices,  the  wind  sings  among  the 
poplars  hymns  of  love ;  come — come  I  " 

Night  began  to  cast  her  shadows,  the  moon  shimmered  on 
the  surface  of  the  pool,  the  mist  was  driven  before  the  rising 
breeze,  the  green  eyes  glittered  in  the  dusk  like  the  will-o'- 
the-wisps  that  run  over  the  surface  of  impure  waters.  "  Come, 
come  !  "  these  words  were  murmuring  in  the  ears  of  Fernando 
like  an  incantation, — "  Come  !  "  and  the  mysterious  woman 
called  him  to  the  brink  of  the  abyss  where  she  was  poised, 
and  seemed  to  offer  him  a  kiss — a  kiss — — 

Fernando  took  one  step  toward  her — another — and  felt 
arms  slender  and  flexible  twining  about  his  neck  and  a  cold 
sensation  on  his  burning  lips,  a  kiss  of  snow — wavered,  lost 
his  footing  and  fell,  striking  the  water  with  a  dull  and  mourn- 
ful sound. 

The  waves  leaped  in  sparks  of  light,  and  closed  over  his 
body,  and  their  silvery  circles  went  widening,  widening  until 
they  died  away  on  the  banks. 


THE  GOLDEN  BRACELET 
I. 

She  was  beautiful,  beautiful  with  that  beauty  which  turns 
a  man  dizzy  ;  beautiful  with  that  beauty  which  in  no  wise 
resembles  our  dream  of  the  angels,  and  yet  is  supernatural ; 
a  diabolical  beauty  that  the  devil  perchance  gives  to  certain 
beings  to  make  them  his  instruments  on  earth. 

He  loved  her — he  loved  her  with  that  love  which  knows 
not  check  nor  bounds  ;  he  loved  her  with  that  love  which 
seeks  delight  and  finds  but  martyrdom  ;  a  love  which  is  akin 
to  bliss,  yet  which  Heaven  seems  to  cast  on  mortals  for  the 
expiation  of  their  sins. 

She  was  wayward,  wayward  and  unreasonable,  like  all  the 
women  of  the  world. 

He,  superstitious,  superstitious  and  valiant,  like  all  the 
men  of  his  time. 

Her  name  was  Maria  Antunez. 

His,  Pedro  Alfonso  de  Orellana. 

Both  were  natives  of  Toledo,  and  both  had  their  homes  in 
the  city  which  saw  their  birth. 

The  tradition  which  relates  this  marvellous  event,  an  event 
of  many  years  since,  tells  nothing  more  of  these  two  central 
actors. 

I,  in  my  character  of  scrupulous  historian,  will  not  add  a 
single  word  of  my  own  invention  to  describe  them  further. 

II. 

One  day  he  found  her  in  tears  and  asked  her : 
"  Why  dost  thou  weep  ?  " 

32 


I^e 


l^^'TY 


J£OBH\K. 


THE  GOLDEN  BRACELET  33 

She  dried  her  eyes,  looked  at  him  searchingly,  heaved  a 
sigh  and  began  to  weep  anew. 

Then,  drawing  close  to  Maria,  he  took  her  hand,  leaned 
his  elbow  on  the  fretted  edge  of  the  Arabic  parapet  whence 
the  beautiful  maiden  was  watching  the  river  flow  beneath, 
and  again  he  asked  her :  "  Why  dost  thou  weep  ?  " 

The  Tajo,  moaning  at  the  tower's  foot,  twisted  in  and  out 
amid  the  rocks  on  which  is  seated  the  imperial  city.  The 
sun  was  sinking  behind  the  neighboring  mountains,  the  after- 
noon haze  was  floating,  a  veil  of  azure  gauze,  and  only  the 
monotonous  sound  of  the  water  broke  the  profound  stillness. 

Maria  exclaimed  :  "  Ask  me  not  why  I  weep,  ask  me  not ; 
for  I  would  not  know  how  to  answer  thee,  nor  thou  how  to 
understand.  In  the  souls  of  us  women  are  stifling  desires 
which  reveal  themselves  only  in  a  sigh,  mad  ideas  that  cross 
the  imagination  without  our  daring  to  form  them  into  speech, 
strange  phenomena  of  our .  mysterious  nature  which  man 
cannot  even  conceive.  I  implore  thee,  ask  me  not  the  cause 
of  my  grief ;  if  I  should  reveal  it  to  thee,  perchance  thou 
wouldst  reply  with  peals  of  laughter." 

When  these  words  were  faltered  out,  again  she  bowed  the 
head  and  again  he  urged  his  questions. 

The  radiant  damsel,  breaking  at  last  her  stubborn  silence, 
said  to  her  lover  in  a  hoarse,  unsteady  voice : 

"  Thou  wilt  have  it.  It  is  a  folly  that  will  make  thee  laugh, 
but  be  it  so.     I  will  tell  thee,  since  thou  dost  crave  to  hear. 

"  Yesterday  I  was  in  the  temple.  They  were  celebrating 
the  feast  of  the  Virgin  ;  her  image,  placed  on  a  golden 
pedestal  above  the  High  Altar,  glowed  like  a  burning  coal; 
the  notes  of  the  organ  trembled,  spreading  from  echo  to  echo 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  church,  and  in  the 
choir  the  priests  were  chanting  the  Salve,  Regina. 

"  I  was  praying  ;  I  was  praying,  all  absorbed  in  my  relig- 
ious meditations,  when  involuntarily  I  lifted  my  head,  and 


34 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


my  gaze  sought  the  altar.  I  know  not  why  my  eyes  from 
that  instant  fixed  themselves  upon  the  image,  but  I  speak 
amiss — it  was  not  on  the  image ;  they  fixed  themselves  upon 
an  object  which  until  then  I  had  not  seen — an  object  which, 
I  know  not  why,  thenceforth  held  all  my  attention.  Do  not 
laugh ;  that  object  was  the  golden  bracelet  that  the  Mother 
of  God  wears  on  one  of  the  arms  in  which  rests  her  divine 
Son.  I  turned  aside  my  gaze  and  strove  again  to  pray.  Im- 
possible. Without  my  will,  my  eyes  moved  back  to  the  same 
point.  The  altar  lights,  reflected  in  the  thousand  facets  of 
those  diamonds,  were  multiplied  prodigiously.  Millions  of 
living  sparks,  rosy,  azure,  green  and  golden,  were  whirling 
around  the  jewels  like  a  storm  of  fiery  atoms,  like  a  dizzy 
round  of  those  spirits  of  flame  which  fascinate  with  their 
brightness  and  their  marvellous  unrest. 

"  I  left  the  church.  I  came  home,  but  I  came  with  that 
idea  fixed  in  imagination.  I  went  to  bed ;  I  could  not  sleep. 
The  night  passed,  a  night  eternal  with  one  thought.  At 
dawn  my  eyelids  closed  and — believest  thou  ? — even  in 
slumber  I  saw  crossing  before  me,  dimming  in  the  distance 
and  ever  returning,  a  woman,  a  woman  dark  and  beautiful, 
who  wore  the  ornament  of  gold  and  jewel  work  ;  a  woman, 
yes,  for  it  was  no  longer  the  Virgin,  whom  I  adore  and  at 
whose  feet  I  bow  ;  it  was  a  woman,  another  woman  like  my- 
self, who  looked  upon  me  and  laughed  mockingly.  *  Dost 
see  it  ? '  she  appeared  to  say,  showing  me  the  treasure. 
*  How  it  glitters  I  It  seems  a  circlet  of  stars  snatched  from 
the  sky  some  summer  night.  Dost  see  it  ?  But  it  is  not  thine, 
and  it  will  be  thine  never,  never.  Thou  wilt  perchance  have 
others  that  surpass  it,  others  richer,  if  it  be  possible,  but  this, 
this  which  sparkles  so  piquantly,  so  bewitchingly,  never, 
never.'  I  awoke,  but  with  the  same  idea  fixed  here,  then  as 
now,  like  a  red-hot  nail,  diabolical,  irresistible,  inspired  be- 
yond a  doubt  by  Satan  himself. — And  what  then  ? — Thou 


THE  GOLDEN  BRACELET  ^^ 

art  silent,  silent,  and  dost  hang  thy  head. — Does  not  my  folly 
make  thee  laugh  ?  " 

Pedro,  with  a  convulsive  movement,  grasped  the  hilt  of  his 
sword,  raised  his  head,  which  he  had,  indeed,  bent  low  and 
said  with  smothered  voice  : 

"  Which  Virgin  has  this  jewel  ?  " 

"  The  Virgin  of  the  Sagrario,"  murmured  Maria. 

"  The  Virgin  of  the  Sagrario  !  "  repeated  the  youth,  with 
accent  of  terror.  "  The  Virgin  of  the  Sagrario  of  the 
cathedral !  " 

•And  in  his  features  was  portrayed  for  an  instant  the  state 
of  his  mind,  appalled  before  a  thought. 

"  Ah,  why  does  not  some  other  Virgin  own  it  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  tense,  impassioned  tone.  "  Why  does  not  the 
archbishop  bear  it  in  his  mitre,  the  king  in  his  crown,  or  the 
devil  between  his  claws  ?  I  would  tear  it  away  for  thee, 
though  its  price  were  death  or  hell.  But  from  the  Virgin  of 
the  Sagrario,  our  own  Holy  Patroness, — I — I  who  was  born 
in  Toledo  !     Impossible,  impossible  !  " 

"  Never ! "  murmured  Maria,  in  a  voice  that  scarcely 
reached  the  ear.     *'  Never  !  " 

And  she  wept  again. 

Pedro  fixed  a  stupefied  stare  on  the  running  waves  of  the 
river — on  the  running  waves,  which  flowed  and  flowed  unceas- 
ingly before  his  absent-thoughted  eyes,  breaking  at  the  foot  of 
the  tower  amid  the  rocks  on  which  is  seated  the  imperial  city. 

III. 

The  cathedral  of  Toledo  !  Imagine  a  forest  of  colossal 
palm  trees  of  granite,  that  by  the  interlacing  of  their  branches 
form  a  gigantic,  magnificent  arch,  beneath  which  take  refuge 
and  live,  with  the  life  genius  has  lent  them,  a  whole  creation 
of  beings,  both  fictitious  and  real. 

Imagine  an  in  comprehensible  fall  of  shadow  and  light 


36  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

wherein  the  colored  rays  from  the  ogive  windows  meet  and 
are  merged  with  the  dusk  of  the  nave;  where  the  gleam 
of  the  lamps  struggles  and  is  lost  in  the  gloom  of  the 
sanctuary. 

Imagine  a  world  of  stone,  immense  as  the  spirit  of  our 
religion,  sombre  as  its  traditions,  enigmatic  as  its  parables, 
and  yet  you  will  not  have  even  a  remote  idea  of  this  eternal 
monument  of  the  enthusiasm  and  faith  of  our  ancestors — 
a  monument  upon  which  the  centuries  have  emulously  lav- 
ished their  treasures  of  knowledge,  inspiration  and  the  arts. 

In  ihe  cathedral-heart  dwells  silence,  majesty,  the  poetry 
of  mysticism,  and  a  holy  dread  which  guards  those  thresholds 
against  worldly  thoughts  and  the  paltry  passions  of  earth. 

Consumption  of  the  body  is  stayed  by  breathing  pure 
mountain  air;  atheism  should  be  cured  by  breathing  this 
atmosphere  of  faith. 

But  great  and  impressive  as  the  cathedral  presents  itself 
to  our  eyes  at  whatsoever  hour  we  enter  its  mysterious  and 
sacred  precinct,  never  does  it  produce  an  impression  so  pro- 
found as  in  those  days  when  it  arrays  itself  in  all  the  splendors 
of  religious  pomp,  when  its  shrines  are  covered  with  gold  and 
jewels,  its  steps  with  costly  carpeting  and  its  pillars  with 
tapestry. 

Then,  when  its  thousand  silver  lamps,  aglow,  shed  forth  a 
flood  of  light,  when  a  cloud  of  incense  floats  in  air,  and  the 
voices  of  the  choir,  the  harmonious  pealing  of  the  organs, 
and  the  bells  of  the  tower  make  the  building  tremble  from  its 
deepest  foundations  to  its  highest  crown  of  spires,  then  it  is 
we  comprehend,  because  we  feel,  the  ineffable  majesty  of  God 
'who  dwells  within,  gives  it  life  with  His  breath  and  fills  it 
with  the  reflection  of  His  glory. 

The  same  day  on  which  occurred  the  scene  we  have  just 
described,  the  last  rites  of  the  magnificent  eight-day  feast  of 
the  Virgin  were  held  in  the  cathedral. 


THE  GOLDEN  BRACELET     .  37 

The  holy  festival  had  attracted  an  immense  multitude  of 
the  faithful ;  but  already  they  had  dispersed  in  all  directions ; 
already  the  lights  of  the  chapels  and  of  the  High  Altar  had 
been  extinguished,  and  the  mighty  doors  of  the  temple  had 
groaned  upon"  their  hinges  as  they  closed  behind  the  last 
departing  worshipper,  when  forth  from  the  depth  of  shadow, 
and  pale,  pale  as  the  statue  of  the  tomb  on  which  he  leant 
for  an  instant,  while  he  conquered  his  emotion,  there  ad- 
vanced a  man,  who  came  slipping  with  the  utmost  stealthi- 
ness  toward  the  screen  of  the  central  chapel.  There  the 
gleam  of  a  lamp  made  it  possible  to  distinguish  his  features-. 

It  was  Pedro. 

What  had  passed  between  the  two  lovers  to  bring  him  to 
the  point  of  putting  into  execution  an  idea  whose  mere  con- 
ception had  lifted  his  hair  with  horror  ?  That  could  never  be 
learned. 

But  there  he  was,  and  he  was  there  to  carry  out  his  crimi- 
nal intent.  In  his  restless  glances,  in  the  trembling  of  his 
knees,  in  the  sweat  which  ran  in  great  drops  down  his  face, 
his  thought  stood  written. 

The  cathedral  was  alone,  utterly  alone,  and  drowned  in 
deepest  hush. 

Nevertheless,  there  were  perceptible  from  time  to  time 
suggestions  of  dim  disturbance,  creakings  of  wood  maybe  or 
murmurs  of  the  wind,  or — who  knows  ? — perchance  illusion 
of  the  fancy,  which  in  its  excited  moments  hears  and  sees 
and  feels  what  is  not ';  but  in  very  truth  there  sounded,  now 
here,  now  there,  now  behind  him,  now  even  at  his  side,  some- 
thing like  sobs  suppressed,  something  like  the  rustle  of  trail- 
ing robes,  and  a  muffled  stir  as  of  steps  that  go  and  come 
unceasingly. 

Pedro  forced  himself  to  hold  his  course ;  he  reached  the 
grating  and  mounted  the  first  step  of  the  chancel.  All  along 
the  inner  wall  of  this  chapel  are  ranged  the  tombs  of  kings. 


38  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

whose  images  of  stone,  with  hand  upon  the  sword-hilt,  seem 
to  keep  watch  night  and  day  over  the  sanctuary  in  whose 
shade  they  take  their  everlasting  rest. 

"  Onward  !  "  he  murmured  under  his  breath,  and  he  strove 
to  move  and  could  not.  It  seemed  as  if  his  feet  were  nailed 
to  the  pavement.  He  lowered  his  eyes,  and  his  hair  stood 
on  end  with  horror.  The  floor  of  the  chapel  was  made  of 
wide,  dark  burial  slabs. 

For  a  moment  he  believed  that  a  cold  and  fleshless  hand 
was  holding  him  there  with  strength  invincible.  The  dying 
lamps,  which  sparkled  in  the  hollow  aisles  and  transepts  like 
lost  stars  in  the  dark,  wavered  before  his  vision,  the  statues 
of  the  sepulchres  wavered  and  the  images  of  the  altar,  all  the 
cathedral  wavered,  with  its  granite  arcades  and  buttresses  of 
solid  stone. 

"  Onward  I  "  Pedro  exclaimed  again,  as  if  beside  himself; 
he  approached  the  altar  and  climbing  upon  it,  he  reached  the 
pedestal  of  the  image.  All  the  space  about  clothed  itself  in 
weird  and  frightful  shapes,  all  was  shadow  and  flickering 
light,  more  awful  even  than  total  darkness.  Only  the  Queen 
of  Heaven,  softly  illuminated  by  a  golden  lamp,  seemed  to 
smile,  tranquil,  gracious  and  serene,  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
horror. 

Nevertheless,  that  silent,  changeless  smile,  which  calmed 
him  for  an  instant,  in  the  end  filled  him  with  fear,  a  fear 
stranger  and  more  profound  than  \vhat  he  had  suffered 
hitherto. 

Yet  he  regained  his  self-control,  shut  his  eyes  so  as  not  to 
see  her,  extended  his  hand  with  a  spasmodic  movement  and 
snatched  off  the  golden  bracelet,  pious  offering  of  a  sainted 
archbishop,  the  golden  bracelet  whose  value  equalled  a 
fortune. 

Now  the  jewel  was  in  his  possession  ;  his  convulsed  fingers 
clutched  it  with  superhuman  force  ;  there  was  nothing  left 


THE  GOLDEN  BRACELET 


39 


save  to  flee — to  flee  with  it ;  but  for  this  it  was  necessary  to 
open  his  eyes,  and  Pedro  was  afraid  to  see,  to  see  the  image, 
to  see  the  kings  of  the  sepulchres,  the  demons  of  the  cor- 
nices, the  griffins  of  the  capitals,  the  blotches  of  shadow 
and  flashes  of  light  which,  like  ghostly,  gigantic  phantoms, 
were  moving  slowly  in  the  depths  of  the  nave,  now  filled 
^with  confused  noises,  unearthly  and  appalling. 

At  last  he  opened  his  eyes,  cast  one  glance  about  him,  and 
from  his  lips  escaped  a  piercing  cry. 

The  cathedral  was  full  of  statues,  statues  which,  clothed  in 
strange,  flowing  raiment,  had  descended  from  their  niches 
and  were  thronging  all  the  vast  compass  of  the  church,  staring 
at  him  with  their  hollow  eyes. 

Saints,  nuns,  angels,  devils,  warriors,  great  ladies,  pages, 
hermits,  peasants  surrounded  him  on  every  side  and  were 
massed  confusedly  in  the  open  spaces  and  about  the  altar. 
Before  it  there  officiated,  in  presence  of  the  kings  who  were 
kneeling  upon  their  tombs,  the  marble  archbishops  whom  he 
had  seen  heretofore  stretched  motionless  upon  their  beds  of 
death,  while  a  whole  world  of  granite  beasts  and  creeping 
things,  writhing  over  the  paving-stones,  twisting  along  the 
buttresses,  curled  up  in  the  canopies,  swinging  from  the 
vaulted  roof,  quivered  into  life  like  worms  in  a  giant  corpse, 
fantastic,  distorted,  hideous. 

He  could  resist  no  longer.  His  brows  throbbed  with  ter- 
rible violence ;  a  cloud  of  blood  darkened  his  vision  ;  he 
uttered  a  second  scream,  a  scream  heart-rending,  inhuman, 
and  fell  swooning  across  the  altar. 

When  the  sacristans  found  him  crouching  on  the  altar  steps 
the  next  morning,  he  still  clutched  the  golden  bracelet  in  both 
hands  and  on  seeing  them  draw  near,  he  shrieked  with  dis- 
cordant yells  of  laughter  : 

"  Hers  1  hers  !  " 

The  poor  wretch  had  gone  mad. 


THE  RAY  OF  MOONSHINE 

I  DO  not  know  whether  this  is  history  which  seems  Uke  a 
tale,  or  a  tale  which  seems  like  history ;  what  I  can  affirm  is 
that  in  its  core  it  contains  a  truth,  a  truth  supremely  sad, 
which  in  all  likelihood  I,  with  my  imaginative  tendencies,  will 
be  one  of  the  last  to  take  to  heart. 

Another  with  this  idea  would  perhaps  have  made  a  book 
of  melancholy  philosophy.  I  have  written  this  legend  that 
those  who  see  nothing  of  its  deep  meaning  may  at  least 
derive  from  it  a  moment  of  entertainment. 

I. 

He  was  noble,  he  had  been  born  amid  the  clash  of  arms, 
and  yet  the  sudden  blare  of  a  war  trumpet  would  not  have 
caused  him  to  lift  his  head  an  instant  or  turn  his  eyes  an 
inch  away  from  the  dim  parchment  in  which  he  was  reading 
the  last  song  of  a  troubadour. 

Those  who  desired  to  see  him  had  no  need  to  look  for  him 
in  the  spacious  court  of  his  castle,  where  the  grooms  were 
breaking  in  the  colts,  the  pages  teaching  the  falcons  to  fly, 
and  the  soldiers  employing  their  leisure  days  in  sharpening 
on  stones  the  iron  points  of  their  lances. 

"Where  is  Manrico  ?  Where  is  your  lord  ?  "  his  mother 
would  sometimes  ask. 

"  We  do  not  know,"  the  servants  would  reply.  "  Per- 
chance he  is  in  the  cloister  of  the  monastery  of  the  Pena, 
seated  on  the  edge  of  a  tomb,  listening  to  see  if  he  may  sur- 

40 


u 


OF 
CALlFOggi?' 


THE  RA  Y  OF  MOONSHINE 


(^ 


prise  some  word  of  the  conversation  of  the  dead ;  or  on 
the  bridge  watching  the  river-waves  chasing  one  another 
under  its  arches,  or  curled  up  in  the  fissure  of  some  rock 
counting  the  stars  in  the  sky,  following  with  his  eyes  a  cloud, 
or  contemplating  the  will-o'-the-wisps  that  flit  like  exhalations 
over  the  surface  of  the  marshes.  Wherever  he  is,  it  is  where 
he  has  least  company." 

In  truth,  Manrico  was  a  lover  of  solitude,  and  so  extreme 
a  lover  that  sometimes  he  would  have  wished  to  be  a  body 
without  a  shadow,  because  then  his  shadow  would  not  follow 
him  everywhere  he  went. 

He  loved  solitude,  because  in  its  bosom  he  would  invent, : 
giving  free  rein  to  his  imagination,  a  phantasmal  world,  in- 
habited by  wonderful  beings,  daughters  of  his  weird  fancies 
and  his  poetic  dreams ;  for  Manrico  was  a  poet, — so  true  a     I 
poet  that  never  had   he  found  adequate  forms  in  which  to     i 
\    utter  his   thoughts   nor   had   he    ever   imprisoned   them  in     \ 
\words.  i 

He  believed  that  among  the  red  coals  of  the  hearth  there 
dwelt  fire-spirits  of  a  thousand  hues  which  ran  like  golden 
insects  along  the  enkindled  logs  or  danced  in  a  luminous 
whirl  of  sparks  on  the  pointed  flames,  and  he  passed  long 
hours  of  inaction  seated  on  a  low  stool  by  the  high  Gothic 
chimney-place,  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire. 

He  believed  that  in  the  depths  of  the  waves  of  the  river, 
among  the  mosses  of  the  fountain  and  above  the  mists  of  the 
lake  there  lived  mysterious  women,  sibyls,  nymphs,  undines, 
who  breathed  forth  laments  and  sighs,  or  sang  and  laughed 
in  the  monotonous  murmur  of  the  water,  a  murmur  to  which 
he  listened  in  silence,  striving  to  translate  it.  '. 

In  the  clouds,  in  the  air,  in  the  depths  of  the  groves,  in 
the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  he  imagined  that  he  perceived  forms, 
or  heard  mysterious  sounds,  forms  of  supernatural  beings, 
indistinct  words  which  he  could  not  comprehend. 


42  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Love  1  He  had  been  born  to  dream  love,  not  to  feel  it. 
He  loved  all  women  an  instant,  this  one  because  she  was 
golden -haired,  that  one  because  she  had  red  lips,  another 
because  in  walking  she  swayed  as  a  river-reed. 

Sometimes  his  delirium  reached  the  point  of  his  spending 
an  entire  night  gazing  at  the  moon,  which  floated  in  heaven 
in  a  silvery  mist,  or  at  the  stars,  which  twinkled  afar  off  like 
the  changing  lights  of  precious  stones.  In  those  long  nights 
of  poetic  wakefulness,  he  would  exclaim :  "  If  it  is  true,  as 
the  Prior  of  the  Pena  has  told  me,  that  it  is  possible  those 
points  of  light  may  be  worlds,  if  it  is  true  that  people  live  on 
that  pearly  orb  which  rides  above  the  clouds,  how  beautiful 
must  the  women  of  those  luminous  regions  be !  and  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  see  them,  and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  love 
them  I    What  must  their  beauty  be  I    And  what  their  love  !  " 

Manrico  was  not  yet  so  demented  that  the  boys  would  run 
after  him,  but  he  was  sufficiently  so  to  talk  and  gesticulate 
to  himself,  which  is  where  madness  begins. 

II. 

Over  the  Douro,  which  ran  lapping  the  weatherworn  and 
darkened  stones  of  the  walls  of  Soria,  there  is  a  bridge 
leading  from  the  city  to  the  old  convent  of  the  Templars, 
whose  estates  extended  along  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river. 

At  the  time  to  which  we  refer,  the  knights  of  the  Order 
had  already  abandoned  their  historic  fortresses,  but  there 
still  remained  standing  the  ruins  of  the  large  round  towers 
of  their  walls, — there  still  might  be  seen,  as  in  part  may  be 
seen  to-day,  covered  with  ivy  and  white  morning-glories 
the  massive  arches  of  their  cloister  and  the  long  ogive 
galleries  of  their  courts  of  arms  through  which  the  wind 
would  breathe  soft  sighs,  stirring  the  deep  foliage. 

In  the  orchards  and  in  the  gardens,  whose  paths  the  feet 
of  the  monks  had  not  trodden  for  many  years,  vegetation, 


THE  RA  Y  OF  MOONSHINE  43 

left  to  itself,  made  holiday,  without  fear  that  the  hand  of 
man  should  mutilate  it  in  the  effort  to  embellish.  Climbing 
plants  crept  upward  twining  about  the  aged  trunks  of  the 
trees  ;  the  shady  paths  through  aisles  of  poplars,  whose  leafy 
tops  met  and  mingled,  were  overgrown  with  turf;  spear- 
plumed  thistles  and  nettles  had  shot  up  in  the  sandy  roads, 
and  in  the  parts  of  the  building  which  were  bulging  out, 
ready  to  fall ;  the  yellow  crucifera,  floating  in  the  wind  like 
the  crested  feathers  of  a  helmet,  and  bell-flowers,  white  and 
blue,  balancing  themselves,  as  in  a  swing,  on  their  long 
and  flexible  stems,  proclaimed  the  conquest  of  decay  and 
ruin. 

It  was  night,  a  summer  night,  mild,  full  of  perfumes  and 
peaceful  sounds,  and  with  a  moon,  white  and  serene,  high  in 
the  blue,  luminous,  transparent  heavens. 

Manrico,  his  imagination  seized  by  a  poetic  frenzy,  after 
crossing  the  bridge  from  which  he  contemplated  for  a 
moment  the  dark  silhouette  of  the  city  outlined  against  the 
background  of  some  pale,  soft  clouds  massed  on  the  horizon, 
plunged  into  the  deserted  ruins  of  the  Templars. 

It  was  midnight.  The  moon,  which  had  been  slowly  rising, 
was  now  at  the  zenith,  when,  on  entering  a  dusky  avenue  that 
led  from  the  demolished  cloister  to  the  bank  of  the  Douro, 
Manrico  uttered  a  low,  stifled  cry,  strangely  compounded  of 
surprise,  fear  and  joy. 

In  the  depths  of  the  dusky  avenue  he  had  seen  moving 
something  white,  which  shimmered  a  moment  and  then  van- 
ished in  the  darkness,  the  trailing  robe  of  a  woman,  of  a 
woman  who  had  crossed  the  path  and  disappeared  amid  the 
foliage  at  the  very  instant  when  the  mad  dreamer  of  absurd, 
impossible  dreams  penetrated  into  the  gardens. 

An  unknown  w^oman  ! — In  this  place! — At  this  hour  I 
"  This,  this  is  the  woman  of  my  quest,"  exclaimed  Manrico, 
and  he  darted  forward  in  pursuit,  swift  as  an  arrow. 


44  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

III. 

He  reached  the  spot  where  he  had  seen  the  mysterious 
woman  disappear  in  the  thick  tangle  of  the  branches.  She 
had  gone.  Whither  ?  Afar,  very  far,  he  thought  he  descried, 
among  the  crowding  trunks  of  the  trees,  something  Hke  a 
shining,  or  a  white,  moving  form.  "  It  is  she,  it  is  she,  who 
has  wings  on  her  feet  and  flees  like  a  shadow  1  "  he  said, 
and  rushed  on  in  his  search,  parting  with  his  hands  the  net- 
work of  ivy  which  was  spread  like  a  tapestry  from  poplar 
to  poplar.  By  breaking  through  brambles  and  parasitical 
growths,  he  made  his  way  to  a  sort  of  platform  on  which  the 
moonlight  dazzled. — Nobody  1 — "  Ah,  but  by  this  path,  but 
by  this  she  slips  away  1  "  he  then  exclaimed.  "  I  hear  her 
footsteps  on  the  dry  leaves,  and  the  rustle  of  her  dress  as  it 
sweeps  over  the  ground  and  brushes  against  the  shrubs." 
And  he  ran, — ran  like  a  madman,  hither  and  thither,  and  did 
not  find  her.  "  But  still  comes  the  sound  of  her  footfalls," 
he  murmured  again.  "  I  think  she  spoke ;  beyond  a  doubt, 
she  spoke.  The  wind  which  sighs  among  the  branches,  the 
leaves  which  seem  to  be  praying  in  low  voices,  prevented  my 
hearing  what  she  said,  but  beyond  a  doubt  she  fleets  by 
yonder  path  ;  she  spoke,  she  spoke.  In  what  language  ?  I 
know  not,  but  it  is  a  foreign  speech."  And  again  he  ran 
onward  in  pursuit,  sometimes  thinking  he  saw  her,  sometimes 
that  he  heard  her ;  now  noticing  that  the  branches,  among 
which  she  had  disappeared,  were  still  in  motion  ;  now  im- 
agining that  he  distinguished  in  the  sand  the  prints  of  her 
little  feet ;  again  firmly  persuaded  that  a  special  fragrance 
which  crossed  the  air  from  time  to  time  was  an  aroma  belong- 
ing to  that  woman  who  was  making  sport  of  him,  taking 
pleasure  in  eluding  him  among  these  intricate  growths  of 
briers  and  brambles.     Vain  attempt  I 

He  wandered  some  hours  from  one  spot  to  another,  beside 


THE  RAY  OF  MOONSHINE  4^ 

himself,  now  pausing  to  listen,  now  gliding  with  the  utmost 
precaution  over  the  herbage,  now  in  frantic  and  desperate 
race. 

Pushing  on,  pushing  on  through  the  immense  gardens 
which  bordered  the  river,  he  came  at  last  to  the  foot  of  the 
cliff  on  which  rises  the  hermitage  of  San  Saturio.  "  Perhaps 
from  this  height  I  can  get  my  bearings  for  pursuing  my 
search  across  this  confused  labyrinth,"  he  exclaimed,  climb- 
ing from  rock  to  rock  with  the  aid  of  his  dagger. 

He  reached  the  summit  whence  may  be  seen  the  city  in 
the  distance  and,  curving  at  his  feet,  a  great  part  of  the 
Douro,  compelling  its  dark,  impetuous  stream  onward  through 
the  winding  banks  that  imprison  it. 

Manrico,  once  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  turned  his  gaze  in 
every  direction,  till,  bending  and  fixing  it  at  last  on  a  certain 
point,  he  could  not  restrain  an  oath. 

The  sparkling  moonlight  glistened  on  the  wake  left  behind 
by  a  boat,  which,  rowed  at  full  speed,  was  making  for  the 
opposite  shore. 

In  that  boat  he  thought  he  had  distinguished  a  white  and 
slender  figure,  a  woman  without  doubt,  the  woman  whom  he 
had  seen  in  the  grounds  of  the  Templars,  the  woman  of  his 
dreams,  the  realization  of  his  wildest  hopes.  He  sped  down 
the  cliff  with  the  agility  of  a  deer,  threw  his  cap,  whose  tall, 
full  plume  might  hinder  him  in  running,  to  the  ground,  and 
freeing  himself  from  his  heavy  velvet  cloak,  shot  like  a 
meteor  toward  the  bridge. 

He  believed  he  could  cross  it  and  reach  the  city  before  the 
boat  would  touch  the  further  bank.  Folly  !  When  Manrico, 
panting  and  covered  with  sweat,  reached  the  city  gate,  already 
they  who  had  crossed  the  Douro  over  against  San  Saturio 
were  entering  Soria  by  one  of  the  posterns  in  the  wall,  which, 
at  that  time,  extended  to  the  bank  of  the  river  whose  waters 
mirrored  its  gray  battlements. 


46  ^  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

IV. 

Although  his  hope  of  overtaking  those  who  had  entered  by 
the  postern  gate  of  San  Saturio  was  dissipated,  that  of  trac- 
ing out  the  house  which  sheltered  them  in  the  city  was  not 
therefore  abandoned  by  our  hero.  With  his  mind  fixed  upon 
this  idea,  he  entered  the  town  and,  taking  his  way  toward  the 
ward  of  San  Juan,  began  roaming  its  streets  at  hazard. 

The  streets  of  Soria  were  then,  and  they  are  to-day,  narrow, 
dark  and  crooked.  A  profound  silence  reigned  in  them,  a 
silence  broken  only  by  the  distant  barking  of  a  dog,  the  bar- 
ring of  a  gate  or  the  neighing  of  a  charger,  whose  pawing  made 
the  chain  which  fastened  him  to  the  manger  rattle  in  the 
subterranean  stables. 

Manrico,  with  ear  attent  to  these  vague  noises  of  the  night, 
which  at  times  seemed  to  be  the  footsteps  of  some  person 
who  had  just  turned  the  last  corner  of  a  deserted  street,  at 
others,  the  confused  voices  of  people  who  were  talking  behind 
him  and  whom  every  moment  he  expected  to  see  at  his  side, 
spent  several  hours  running  at  random  from  one  place  to 
another. 

At  last  he  stopped  beneath  a  great  stone  mansion,  dark  and 
very  old,  and,  standing  there,  his  eyes  shone  with  an  inde- 
scribable expression  of  joy.  In  one  of  the  high  ogive 
windows  of  what  we  might  call  a  palace,  he  saw  a  ray  of  soft 
and  mellow  light  which,  passing  through  some  thin  drap- 
eries of  rose-colored  silk,  was  reflected  on  the  time-black- 
ened, weather-cracked  wall  of  the  house  across  the  way. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  it ;  here  dwells  my  unknown 
lady,"  murmured  the  youth  in  a  low  voice,  without  removing 
his  eyes  for  a  second  from  the  Gothic  window.  "  Here  she 
dwells  I  She  entered  by  the  postern  gate  of  San  Saturio, — 
by  the  postern  gate  of  San  Saturio  is  the  way  to  this  ward 
— in  this  ward  there  is  a  house  where,  after  midnight,  there 


THE  RA  Y  OF  MOONSHINE  47 

is  some  one  awake — awake  ?  Who  can  it  be  at  this  hour  if 
not  she,  just  returned  from  her  nocturnal  excursions  ?  There 
is  no  more  room  for  doubt ;  this  is  her  home." 

In  this  firm  persuasion  and  revolving  in  his  head  the 
maddest  and  most  capricious  fantasies,  he  awaited  dawn 
opposite  the  Gothic  window  where  there  was  a  light  all  night 
and  from  which  he  did  not  withdraw  his  gaze  a  moment. 

When  daybreak  came,  the  massive  gates  of  the  arched 
entrance  to  the  mansion,  on  whose  keystone  was  sculptured 
the  owner's  coat  of  arms,  turned  ponderously  on  their  hinges 
with  a  sharp  and  prolonged  creaking.  A  servitor  appeared 
on  the  threshold  with  a  bunch  of  keys  in  his  hand,  rubbing 
his  eyes,  and  showing  as  he  yawned  a  set  of  great  teeth  which 
might  well  rouse  envy  in  a  crocodile. 

For  Manrico  to  see  him  and  to  rush  to  the  gate  was  the 
work  of  an  instant. 

"  Who  lives  in  this  house  ?  What  is  her  name  ?  Her 
country  ?  Why  has  she  come  to  Soria  ?  Has  she  a  hus- 
band ?  Answer,  answer,  animal !  "  This  was  the  salutation 
which,  shaking  him  violently  by  the  shoulder,  Manrico  hurled 
at  the  poor  servitor,  who,  after  staring  at  him  a  long 
while  with  frightened,  stupefied  eyes,  replied  in  a  voice  broken 
with  amazement : 

"  In  this  house  lives  the  right  honorable  Senor  don  Alonso 
de  Valdecuellos,  Master  of  the  Horse  to  our  lord,  the  King, 
He  has  been  wounded  in  the  war  with  the  Moors  and  is  now 
in  this  city  recovering  from  his  injuries." 

"Well!  well!  His  daughter?"  broke  in  the  impatient 
youth.  "  His  daughter,  or  his  sister,  or  his  wife,  or  who- 
ever she  may  be  ?  " 

"  He  has  no  woman  in  his  family." 

"  No  woman  !  Then  who  sleeps  in  that  chamber  there, 
where  all  night  long  I  have  seen  a  light  burning  ?  " 


48  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"  There  ?     There  sleeps  my  lord  Don  Alonso,  who,  as  he 
^  is  ill,  keeps  his  lamp  burning  till  dawn." 

A  thunderbolt,  suddenly  falling  at  his  feet,  would  not  have 
given  Manrico  a  greater  shock  than  these  words. 

V. 

"  I  must  find  her,  I  must  find  her ;  and  if  I  find  her,  I  am 
almost  certain  I  shall  recognize  her.  How  ? — I  cannot  tell 
— but  recognize  her  I  must.  The  echo  of  her  footstep,  or  a 
single  word  of  hers  which  I  may  hear  again  ;  the  hem  of  her 
robe,  only  the  hem  which  I  may  see  again  would  be  enough 
to  make  me  sure  of  her.  Night  and  day  I  see  floating  before 
my  eyes  those  folds  of  a  fabric  diaphanous  and  whiter  than 
snow,  night  and  day  there  is  sounding  here  within,  within  my 
head,  the  soft  rustle  of  her  raiment,  the  vague  murmur  of 
her  unintelligible  words. — What  said  she  ? — What  said  she  ? 
Ah,  if  I  might  only  know  what  she  said,  perchance — but  yet 
without  knowing  it,  I  shall  find  her — I  shall  find  her^ny 
heart  tells  me  so,  and  my  heart  deceives  me  never. — It  is 
true  that  I  have  unavailingly  traversed  all  the  streets  of 
Soria,  that  I  have  passed  nights  upon  nights  in  the  open  air, 
a  corner-post ;  that  I  have  spent  more  than  twenty  golden 
coins  in  persuading  duennas  and  servants  to  gossip ;  that  I 
gave  holy  water  in  St.  Nicholas  to  an  old  crone  muffled  up 
so  artfully  in  her  woollen  mantle  that  she  seemed  to  me  a 
goddess ;  and  on  coming  out,  after  matins,  from  the  collegiate 
church,  in  the  dusk  before  the  dawn,  I  followed  like  a  fool 
the  litter  of  the  archdeacon,  believing  that  the  hem  of  his 
vestment  was  that  of  the  robe  of  my  unknown  lady — but  it 
matters  not — I  must  find  her,  and  the  rapture  of  possessing 
her  will  assuredly  surpass  the  labors  of  the  quest. 

"  What  will  her  eyes  be  ?  They  should  be  azure,  azure 
and  liquid  as  the  sky  of  night.  How  I  delight  in  eyes  of 
that  color  I     They  are   so  expressive,  so  dreamy,  so — yes. 


THE  RA  V  OF  MOONSHINE  40 

— no  doubt  of  it ;  azure  her  eyes  should  be,  azure  they  are, 
assuredly  ; — and  her  tresses  black,  jet  black  and  so  long  that 
they  wave  upon  the  air — it  seems  to  me  t  saw  them  waving 
that  night,  like  her  robe,  and  they  were  black — I  do  not  de- 
ceive myself,  no  ;  they  were  black. 

"  And  how  well  azure  eyes,  very  large  and  slumbrous,  and 
loose  tresses,  waving  and  dark,  become  a  tall  woman — for — 
she  is  tall,  tall  and  slender,  like  those  angels  above  the  portals 
of  our  basilicas,  angels  whose  oval  faces  the  shadows  of  their 
granite  canopies  veil  in  mystic  twilight. 

"  Her  voice  ! — her  voice  I  have  heard — her  voice  is  soft 
as  the  breathing  of  the  wind  in  the  leaves  of  the  poplars, 
and  her  walk  measured  and  stately  like  the  cadences  of  a 
musical  instrument. 

"  And  this  woman,  who  is  lovely  as  the  loveliest  of  my 
youthful  dreams,  who  thinks  as  I  think,  who  enjoys  what  I 
enjoy,  who  hates  what  I  hate,  who  is  a  twin  spirit  of  my  spirit, 
jRrho  is  the  complement  of  my  being,  must  she  not  feel  moved 
on  meeting  me  ?  Must  she  not  love  me  as  I  shall  love  her, 
as  I  love  her  already,  with  all  the  strength  of  my  life,  with 
every  faculty  of  my  soul  ? 

"  Back,  back  to  the  place  where  I  saw  her  for  the  first 
and  only  time  that  I  have  seen  her.  Who  knows  but  that, 
capricious  as  myself,  a  lover  of  solitude  and  mystery  like  all 
dreamy  souls,  she  may  take  pleasure  in  wandering  among 
the  ruins  in  the  silence  of  the  night  ?  " 

Two  months  had  passed  since  the  servitor  of  Don  Alonso 
de  Valdecuellos  had  disillusionized  the  infatuated  Manrico, 
two  months  in  every  hour  of  which  he  had  built  a  castle  in 
the  air  only  for  reality  to  shatter  with  a  breath ;  two  months 
during  which  he  had  sought  in  vain  that  unknown  woman 
for  whom  an  absurd  love  had  been  growing  in  his  soul, 
thanks  to  his  still  more  absurd  imaginations ;  two  months 
had  flown  since  his  first  adventure  when  now,  after  crossing. 


50  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

absorbed  in  these  ideas,  the  bridge  which  leads  to  the  convent 
of  the  Templars,  the  enamored  youth  plunged  again  into  the 
intricate  pathways  of  the  gardens. 

VI. 

The  night  was  calm  and  beautiful,  the  full  moon  shone 
high  in  the  heavens,  and  the  wind  sighed  with  the  sweetest 
of  murmurs  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees. 

Manrico  arrived  at  the  cloister,  swept  his  glance  over  the 
enclosed  green  and  peered  through  the  massive  arches  of 
the  arcades.     It  was  deserted. 

He  went  forth,  turned  his  steps  toward  the  dim  avenue 
that  leads  to  the  Douro,  and  had  not  yet  entered  it  when 
there  escaped  from  his  lips  a  cry  of  joy. 

He  had  seen  floating  for  an  instant,  and  then  disappearing, 
the  hem  of  the  white  robe,  of  the  white  robe  of  the  woman 
of  his  dreams,  of  the  woman  whom  now  he  loved  like  a 
madman. 

He  runs,  he  runs  in  his  pursuit,  he  reaches  the  spot  where 
he  had  seen  her  vanish  ;  but  there  he  stops,  fixes  his  terrified 
eyes  upon  the  ground,  remains  a  moment  motionless,  a  slight 
nervous  tremor  agitates  his  limbs,  a  tremor  which  increases, 
which  increases,  and  shows  symptoms  of  an  actual  convulsion 
— and  he  breaks  out  at  last  into  a  peal  of  laughter,  laughter 
loud,  strident,  horrible. 

That  white  object,  light,  floating,  had  again  shone  before 
his  eyes,  it  had  even  glittered  at  his  feet  for  an  instant,  only 
for  an  instant. 

It  was  a  moonbeam,  a  moonbeam  which  pierced  from  time 
to  time  the  green  vaulted  roof  of  trees  when  the  wind  moved 
their  boughs. 

Several  years  had  passed.  Manrico,  crouched  on  a  settle 
by  the  deep  Gothic  chimney  of  his  castle,  almost  motionless 
and  with  a  vague,  uneasy  gaze  like  that  of  an  idiot,  would 


THE  RA  Y  OF  MOONSHINE 


51 


scarcely  take  notice  either  of  the  endearments  of  his  mother 
or  of  the  attentions  of  his  servants. 

"  You  are  young,  you  are  comely,"  she  would  say  to  him, 
"  why  do  you  languish  in  solitude  ?  Why  do  you  not  seek  a 
woman  whom  you  may  love,  and  whose  love  may  make  you 
happy  ? " 

"  Love !  Love  'is  a  ray  of  moonshine,"  murmured  the 
youth- 

"  Why  do  you  not  throw  off  this  lethargy  ?  "  one  of  his 
squires  would  ask.  "  Arm  yourself  in  iron  from  head  to 
foot,  bid  us  unfurl  to  the  winds  your  illustrious  banner,  and 
let  us  march  to  the  war.     In  war  is  glory." 

"  Glory  ! — Glory  is  a  ray  of  moonshine." 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  me  recite  you  a  ballad,  the  latest 
that  Sir  Arnaldo,  the  Provencal  troubadour,  has  composed  ?  " 

"  No !  no  !  "  exclaimed  the  youth,  straightening  himself 
angrily  on  his  seat,  "  I  want  nothing — that  is — yes,  I  want — 
I  want  you  should  leave  me  alone.  Ballads — women — glory 
— happiness — lies  are  they  all — vain  fantasies  which  we 
shape  in  our  imagination  and  clothe  according  to  our  whim, 
and  we  love  them  and  run  after  them — for  what  ?  for  what? 
To  find  a  ray  of  moonshine." 

Manrico  was  mad ;  ,at  least,  all  the  world  thought  so.  For 
myself,  on  the  contrary,  I  think  what  he  had  done  was  to 
regain  his  senses. 


THE  DEVIL'S  CROSS 

Whether  you  believe  it  or  not  matters  little.  My  grand- 
father told  it  to  my  father  ;  my  father  related  it  to  me,  and  I 
now  recount  it  to  you,  although  it  may  serve  for  nothing  more 
than  to  pass  an  idle  hour. 

I. 

Twilight  was  beginning  to  spread  its  soft,  dim  wings  over 
the  picturesque  banks  of  the  Segre,  when  after  a  fatiguing 
day's  travel  we  reached  Bellver,  the  end  of  our  journey. 

Bellver  is  a  small  town  situated  on  the  slope  of  a  hill, 
beyond  which  may  be  seen,  rising  like  the  steps  of  a  colossal 
granite  amphitheatre,  the  lofty,  enclouded  crests  of  the 
Pyrenees. 

The  white  villages  that  encircle  the  town,  sprinkled  here 
and  there  over  an  undulating  plain  of  verdure,  appear  from  a 
distance  like  a  flock  of  doves  which  have  lowered  their  ffight 
to  quench  their  thirst  in  the  waters  of  the  river. 

A  naked  crag,  at  whose  foot  the  river  makes  a  bend  and  on 
whose  summit  may  still  be  seen  ancient  architectural  remains, 
marks  the  old  boundary  line  between  the  earldom  of  Urgel 
and  the  most  important  of  its  fiefs. 

At  the  right  of  the  winding  path  which  leads  to  this  point, 
going  up  the  river  and  following  its  curves  and  luxuriant 
banks,  one  comes  upon  a  cross. 

The  stem  and  the  arms  are  of  iron  ;  the  circular  base  on 
which  it  rests  is  of  marble,  and  the  stairway  that  leads  to  it 
of  dark  and  ill-fitted  fragments  of  hewn  stone. 

The  destructive  action  of  time,  which  has  covered  the 
metal  with  rust,  has  broken  and  worn  away  the  stone  of 

52 


THE  DEVIL'S  CROSS  ^^ 

this  monument  in  whose  crevices  grow  certain  climbing 
plants,  mounting  in  their  interwoven  growth  until  they  crown 
it,  while  an  old,  wide-spreading  oak  serves  it  as  canopy. 

I  was  some  moments  in  advance  of  my  travelling  com- 
panions, and  halting  my  poor  beast,  I  contemplated  in  silence 
that  cross,  mute  and  simple  expression  of  the  faith  and  piety 
of  other  ages. 

At  that  instant  a  world  of  ideas  thronged  my  imagination, 
— ideas  faint  and  fugitive,  without  definite  form,  which  were 
yet  bound  together,  as  by  an  invisible  thread  of  light,  by  the 
profound  solitude  of  those  places,  the  deep  silence  of  the 
gathering  night  and  the  vague  melancholy  of  my  soul. 

Impelled  by  a  religious  impulse,  spontaneous  and  indefin- 
able, I  dismounted  mechanically,  uncovered,  commenced  to 
search  my  memory  for  one  of  those  prayers  which  I  was 
taught  when  a  child, — one  of  those  prayers  that,  later  in 
life,  involuntarily  escaping  from  our  lips,  seem  to  lighten 
the  burdened  heart  and,  like  tears,  relieve  sorrow,  which 
takes  these  natural  outlets. 

I  had  begun  to  murmur  such  a  prayer,  when  suddenly  I 
felt  myself  violently  seized  by  the  shoulders. 

I  turned  my  head.     A  man  was  standing  at  my  side. 

He  was  one  of  our  guides,  a  native  of  the  region,  who, 
with  an  indescribable  expression  of  terror  depicted  on  his 
face,  strove  to  drag  me  away  with  him  and  to  cover  my  head 
with  the  hat  which  I  still  held  in  my  hands. 

My  first  glance,  half  astonishment,  half  anger,  was  equiv- 
alent to  a  sharp,  though  silent,  interrogation. 

The  poor  fellow,  without  ceasing  his  efforts  to  withdraw 
me  from  that  place,  replied  to  it  with  these  words  which  then 
I  could  not  comprehend  but  which  had  in  them  an  accent  of 
sincerity  that  impressed  me  : — "  By  the  memory  of  your 
mother  1  by  that  which  you  hold  most  sacred  in  the  world, 
senorito^   cover  your  head  and  flee  faster  than  flight  itself 


54 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


from  that  cross.  Are  you  so  desperate  that,  the  help  of 
God  not  being  enough,  you  call  on  that  of  the  Devil  ? " 

I  stood  a  moment  looking  at  him  in  silence.  Frankly, 
I  thought  he  was  a  madman  ;  but  he  went  on  with  equal 
vehemence : 

"  You  seek  the  frontier ;  well,  then,  if  before  this  cross  you 
ask  that  heaven  will  give  you  aid,  the  tops  of  the  neighboring 
mountains  will  rise,  in  a  single  night,  to  the  invisible  stars, 
so  that  we  shall  not  find  the  boundary  in  all  our  life." 

I  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  You  take  it  in  jest  ? — You  think  perhaps  that  this  is  a 
holy  cross  like  the  one  in  the  porch  of  our  church? " 

"  Who  doubts  it  ?  " 

"  Then  you  are  mistaken  out  and  out,  for  this  cross — 
saving  its  divine  association — is  accursed ;  this  cross  belongs 
to  a  demon  and  for  that  reason  is  called  The  Devil's  Cross." 

"  The  Devil's  Cross  1  "  I  repeated,  yielding  to  his  insistence 
without  accounting  to  myself  for  the  involuntary  fear  which 
began  to  oppress  my  spirit,  and  which  repelled  me  as  an  un- 
known force  from  that  place.  "  The  Devil's  Cross  !  Never 
has  my  imagination  been  wounded  with  a  more  inconsistent 
union  of  two  ideas  so  absolutely  at  variance.  A  cross  1  and 
— the  Devil's  !  Come,  come  1  When  we  reach  the  town  you 
must  explain  to  me  this  monstrous  incongruity." 

During  this  short  dialogue  our  comrades,  who  had  spurred 
their  sorry  nags,  joined  us  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  I  told 
them  briefly  what  had  taken  place :  I  remounted  my  hack, 
and  the  bells  of  the  parish  were  slowly  calling  to  prayer  when 
we  alighted  at  the  most  out-of-the-way  and  obscure  of  the 
inns  of  Bellver. 

II. 

Rosy  and  azure  flames  were  curling  and  crackling  all  along 
the  huge  oak  log  which  burned  in  the  wide  fire-place ;  our 


THE  DEVI  US  CROSS  ce 

shadows,  thrown  in  wavering  grotesques  on  the  blackened 
walls,  dwindled  or  grew  gigantic  according  as  the  blaze 
emitted  more  or  less  brilliancy ;  the  alderwood  cup,  now 
empty,  now  full  (and  not  with  water),  like  the  buckets  of  an 
irrigating  wheel,  had  been  thrice  passed  round  the  circle  that 
we  formed  about  the  fire,  and  all  were  awaiting  impatiently 
the  story  of  The  Devil's  Cross,  promised  us  by  way  of  dessert 
after  the  frugal  supper  which  we  had  just  eaten,  when 
our  guide  coughed  twice,  tossed  down  a  last  draught  of 
wine,  wiped  his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand  and  began 
thus  : 

"  It  was  a  long,  long  time  ago,  how  long  I  cannot  say,  but 
the  Moors  were  occupying  yet  the  greater  part  of  Spain,  our 
kings  were  called  counts,  and  the  towns  and  villages  were 
held  in  fief  by  certain  lords,  who  in  turn  rendered  homage 
to  others  more  powerful,  when  that  event  which  I  am  about 
to  relate  took  place." 

After  this  brief  historical  introduction,  the  hero  of  the 
occasion  remained  silent  some  few  moments,  as  if  to  arrange 
his  thoughts,  and  proceeded  thus  : 

"  Well !  the  story  goes  that  in  that  remote  time  this  town 
and  some  others  formed  part  of  the  patrimony  of  a  noble 
baron  whose  seigniorial  castle  stood  for  many  centuries  upon 
the  crest  of  a  crag  bathed  by  the  Segre,  from  which  it  takes 
its  name. 

"  Some  shapeless  ruins  that,  overgrown  with  wild 
mustard  and  moss,  may  still  be  seen  upon  the  summit  from 
the  road  which  leads  to  this  town,  testify  to  the  truth  of  my 
story. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  by  chance  or  through  some  deed 
of  shame  it  came  to  pass  that  this  lord,  who  was  detested  by 
his  vassals  for  his  cruelty,  and  for  his  evil  disposition  refused 
admission  to  court  by  the  king  and  to  their  homes  by  his 
neighbors,  grew  weary  of  living  alone  with  his  bad  temper 


^6  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

and  his  cross-bowmen  on  the  top  of  the  rock  where  his  fore- 
fathers had  hung  their  nest  of  stone. 

"  Night  and  day  he  taxed  his  wits  to  find  some  amusement 
consonant  with  his  character,  which  was  no  easy  matter,  since 
he  had  grown  tired  of  making  war  on  his  neighbors,  beating 
his  servants  and  hanging  his  subjects. 

"  At  this  time,  the  chronicles  relate,  there  occurred  to  him, 
though  without  precedent,  a  happy  idea. 

"  Knowing  that  the  Christians  of  other  nations  were  pre- 
paring to  go  forth,  united  in  a  formidable  fleet,  to  a  marvellous 
country  in  order  to  reconquer  the  sepulchre  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  which  was  in  possession  of  the  Moors,  he  determined 
to  join  their  following. 

"  Whether  he  entertained  this  idea  with  intent  of  atoning 
for  his  sins,  which  were  not  few,  by  shedding  blood  in  so 
righteous  a  cause ;  or  whether  his  object  was  to  remove  to  a 
place  where  his  vicious  deeds  were  not  known,  cannot  be 
said ;  but  it  is  true  that  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  old  and 
young,  of  vassals  and  equals,  he  gathered  together  what 
money  he  could,  released  his  towns,  at  a  heavy  price,  from 
their  allegiance,  and  reserving  of  his  estates  no  more  than 
the  crag  of  the  Segre  and  the  four  towers  of  the  castle,  his 
ancestral  seat,  disappeared  between  the  night  and  the 
morning. 

"  The  whole  district  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  awakened 
from  a  nightmare. 

"  Now  no  longer  clusters  of  men,  instead  of  fruits,  hung 
from  the  trees  of  their  orchards ;  the  young  peasant  girls  no 
longer  feared  to  go,  their  jars  upon  their  heads,  to  draw  water 
from  the  wells  by  the  wayside  ;  nor  did  the  shepherds  lead 
their  flocks  to  the  Segre  by  the  roughest  secret  paths,  fearing 
at  every  turn  of  the  steep  track  to  encounter  the  cross-bowmen 
of  their  dearly  beloved  lord. 

"  Thus   three  years  elapsed.     The  story  of  the  Wicked 


THE  DEVILS  CROSS  57 

Count,  for  by  that  name  only  was  he  known,  had  come  to  be 
the  exclusive  possession  of  the  old  women,  who  in  the  long, 
long  winter  evenings  would  relate  his  atrocities  with  hollow 
and  fearful  voice  to  the  terrified  children,  while  mothers 
would  affright  their  naughty  toddlers  and  crying  babies  by 
saying  :  '  Here  comes  the  Count  of  the  Segre  I '  When  behold  ! 
I  know  not  whether  by  day  or  by  night,  whether  fallen  from 
heaven  or  cast  forth  by  hell,  the  dreaded  Count  appeared 
indeed,  and,  as  we  say,  in  flesh  and  bone,  in  the  midst  of  his 
former  vassals. 

"  I  forbear  to  describe  the  effect  of  this  agreeable  surprise. 
You  can  imagine  it  better  than  I  can  depict  it,  merely  from 
my  telling  you  that  he  returned  claiming  his  forfeited  rights ; 
that  if  he  went  away  evil,  he  came  back  worse  ;  and  that  if 
he  was  poor  and  without  credit  before  going  to  the  war,  now 
he  could  count  on  no  other  resources  than  his  desperation, 
his  lance  and  a  half  dozen  adventurers  as  profligate  and  im- 
pious as  their  chieftain. 

"  As  was  natural,  the  towns  refused  to  pay  tribute,  from 
which  at  so  great  cost  they  had  bought  exemption,  but  the 
Count  fired  their  orchards,  their  farm-houses  and  their  crops. 

"  Then  they  appealed  to  the  royal  justice  of  the  realm,  but 
the  Count  ridiculed  the  letters  mandatory  of  his  sovereign 
lords ;  he  nailed  them  over  the  sally-port  of  his  castle  and 
hung  the  bearers  from  an  oak. 

"  Exasperated,  and  seeing  no  other  way  of  salvation,  at 
last  they  made  a  league  with  one  another,  commended  them- 
selves to  Providence  and  took  up  arms ;  but  the  Count 
gathered  his  followers,  called  the  Devil  to  his  aid,  mounted 
his  rock  and  made  ready  for  the  struggle. 

"  It  began,  terrible  and  bloody.  There  was  fighting  with  all 
sorts  of  weapons,  in  all  places  and  at  all  hours,  with  sword 
and  fire,  on  the  mountain  and  in  the  plain,  by  day  and  by 
night. 


jjS  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"  This  was  not  fighting  to  live  ;  it  was  living  to  fight. 

"  In  the  end  the  cause  of  justice  triumphed.  You  shall 
hear  how. 

"  One  dark,  intensely  dark  night,  when  no  sound  was 
heard  on  earth  nor  a  single  star  shone  in  heaven,  the  lords 
of  the  fortress,  elated  by  a  recent  victory,  divided  the  booty 
and,  drunk  with  the  fume  of  the  liquors,  in  the  midst  of  their 
mad  and  boisterous  revel  intoned  sacrilegious  songs  in  praise 
of  their  infernal  patron. 

"  As  I  have  said,  nothing  was  heard  around  the  castle  save 
the  echo  of  the  blasphemies  which  throbbed  out  into  the 
black  bosom  of  the  night  like  the  throbbing  of  lost  souls 
wrapped  in  the  hurricane  folds  of  hell. 

"  Now  the  careless  sentinels  had  several  times  fixed  their 
eyes  on  the  hamlet  which  rested  in  silence  and,  without  fear 
of  a  surprise,  had  fallen  asleep  leaning  on  the  thick  staves  of 
their  lances,  when,  lo  and  behold  I  a  few  villagers,  resolved 
to  die  and  protected  by  the  darkness,  began  to  scale  the  crag 
of  the  Segre  whose  crest  they  reached  at  the  very  moment  of 
midnight. 

"  Once  on  the  summit,  that  which  remained  for  them  to 
do  required  little  time.  The  sentinels  passed  with  a  single 
bound  the  barrier  which  separates  sleep  from  death.  Fire, 
applied  with  resinous  torches  to  drawbridge  and  portcullis, 
leaped  with  lightning  rapidity  to  the  walls,  and  the  scaling- 
party,  favored  by  the  confusion  and  making  their  way  through 
the  flames,  put  an  end  to  the  occupants  of  that  fortress  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

"  All  perished. 

"  When  the  next  day  began  to  whiten  the  lofty  tops  of  the 
junipers,  the  charred  remains  of  the  fallen  towers  were  still 
smoking,  and  through  their  gaping  breaches  it  was  easy  to 
discern,  glittering  as  the  light  struck  it,  where  it  hung  sus- 
pended from  one  of  the  blackened  pillars  of  the  banquet  hall, 


r 


TWii?  DEVIL'S  CROSS 


59 


the  armor  of  the  dreaded  chieftain  whose  dead  body,  covered 
with  blood  and  dust,  lay  between  the  torn  tapestries  and  the 
hot  ashes,  confounded  with  the  corpses  of  his  obscure  com- 
panions. 

"  Time  passed.  Briers  began  to  creep  through  the  de- 
serted courts,  ivy  to  climb  the  dark  heaps  of  masonry,  and  the 
blue  morning-glory  to  sway  and  swing  from  the  very  turrets. 
The  changeful  sighs  of  the  breeze,  the  croaking  of  the  bifds 
of  night,  and  the  soft  stir  of  reptiles  gliding  through  the  tall 
weeds  alone  disturbed  from  time  to  time  the  deathly  silence 
of  that  accursed  place.  The  unburied  bones  of  its  former 
inhabitants  lay  white  in  the  moonlight  and  still  there  could 
be  seen  the  bundled  armor  of  the  Count  of  the  Segre  hanging 
from  the  blackened  pillar  of  the  banquet  hall. 

"  No  one  dared  touch  it,  but  a  thousand  fables  were  cur- 
rent concerning  it.  It  was  a  constant  source  of  foolish 
reports  and  terrors  among  those  who  saw  it  flashing  in  the 
sunlight  by  day,  or  thought  they  heard  in  the  depths  of 
the  night  the  metallic  sound  of  its  pieces  as  they  struck  one 
another  when  the  wind  moved  them,  with  a  prolonged  and 
doleful  groan. 

"  Notwit,hstanding  all  the  stories  which  were  set  afloat  con- 
cerning the  armor  and  which  the  people  of  the  surrounding 
region  repeated  in  hushed  tones  one  to  another,  they  were 
no  more  than  stories,  and  the  only  positive  result  was  a  con- 
stant state  of  fear  that  every  one  tried  for  his  own  part  to 
dissimulate,  putting,  as  we  say,  a  brave  face  on  it. 

"  If  the  matter  had  gone  no  further,  no  harm  would  have 
been  done.  But  the  Devil,  who  apparently  was  not  satisfied 
with  his  v/ork,  began,  no  doubt  with  the  permission  of  God, 
that  so  the  country  might  expiate  its  sins,  to  take  a  hand  in 
the  game. 

"  From  that  moment  the  tales,  which  until  then  had  been 
nothing  more  than  vague  rumors  without  any  show  of  truth, 


6o  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

began  to  assume  consistency  and  to  grow  from  day  to  day 
more  probable. 

"  Finally  there  came  nights  in  which  all  the  village-folk 
were  able  to  see  a  strange  phenomenon. 

"Amid  the  shadows  in  the  distance,  now  climbing  the 
steep,  twisting  paths  of  the  crag  of  the  Segre,  now  wander- 
ing among  the  ruins  of  the  castle,  now  seeming  to  oscillate 
in  the  air,  mysterious  and  fantastic  lights  were  seen  gliding, 
crossing,  vanishing  and  reappearing  to  recede  in  different 
directions, — lights  whose  source  no  one  could  explain. 

"  This  was  repeated  for  three  or  four  nights  during  the 
space  of  a  month  and  the  perplexed  villagers  looked  in  dis- 
quietude for  the  result  of  those  conventicles,  for  which  cer- 
tainly they  were  not  kept  waiting  long.  Soon  three  or  four 
homesteads  in  flames,  a  number  of  missing  cattle,  and  the 
dead  bodies  of  a  few  travellers,  thrown  from  precipices, 
alarmed  all  the  region  for  ten  leagues  about. 

"  Now  no  doubt  remained.  A  band  of  evildoers  were 
harboring  in  the  dungeons  of  the  castle. 

"  These  desperadoes,  who  showed  themselves  at  first  only 
very  rarely  and  at  definite  points  of  the  forest  which  even  to 
this  day  extends  along  the  river,  finally  came  to  hold  almost 
all  the  passes  of  the  mountains,  to  lie  in  ambush  by  the  roads, 
to  plunder  the  valleys  and  to  descend  like  a  torrent  on  the 
plain  where,  slaughtering  indiscriminately,  they  did  not  leave 
a  doll  with  its  head  on. 

"  Assassinations  multiplied ;  young  girls  disappeared  and 
children  were  snatched  from  their  cradles  despite  the  lamen- 
tations of  their  mothers  to  furnish  those  diabolical  feasts  at 
which,  it  was  generally  believed,  the  sacramental  vessels  stolen 
from  the  profaned  churches  were  used  as  goblets. 

"  Terror  took  such  possession  of  men's  souls  that,  when 
the  bell  rang  for  the  Angelus,  nobody  dared  to  leave  his 


THE  DEVI  US  CROSS  6i 

house,  though  even  there  was  no  certain  security  against  the 
banditti  of  the  crag. 

"  But  who  were  they  ?  Whence  had  they  come  ?  What 
was  the  name  of  their  mysterious  chief?  This  was  the 
enigma  which  all  sought  to  explain,  but  which  thus  far  no 
one  could  solve,  although  it  was  noticed  that  from  this  time 
on  the  armor  of  the  feudal  lord  had  disappeared  from  the 
place  it  had  previously  occupied,  and  afterwards  various 
peasants  had  affirmed  that  the  captain  of  this  inhuman  crew 
marched  at  its  head  clad  in  a  suit  of  mail  which,  if  not  the 
same,  was  its  exact  counterpart. 

"  But  in  the  essential  fact,  when  stripped  of  that  fantastic 
quality  with  which  fear  augments  and  embellishes  its  cher- 
ished creations,  there  was  nothing  necessarily  supernatural 
Hor  strange. 

"  What  was  more  common  in  outlaws  than  the  barbarities 
for  which  this  band  was  distinguished  or  more  natural  than 
that  their  chief  should  avail  himself  of  the  abandoned  armor 
of  the  Count  of  the  Segre  ? 

"  But  the  dying  revelations  of  one  of  his  followers,  taken 
prisoner  in  the  latest  affray,  heaped  up  the  measure  of  evi- 
dence, convincing  the  most  incredulous.  Less  or  more  in 
words,  the  substance  of  his  confession  was  this  : 

"  *  I  belong,'  he  said,  *  to  a  noble  family.  My  youthful 
irregularities,  my  mad  extravagances,  and  finally  my  crimes 
drew  upon  my  head  the  wrath  of  my  kindred  and  the  curse 
of  my  father,  who,  at  his  death,  disinherited  me.  Finding 
myself  alone  and  without  any  resources  whatever,  it  was  the 
Devil,  without  doubt,  who  must  needs  suggest  to  me  the  idea 
of  gathering  together  some  youths  in  a  situation  similar  to 
my  own.  These,  seduced  by  the  promise  of  a  future  of  dis- 
sipation, liberty  and  abundance,  did  not  hesitate  an  instant 
to  subscribe  to  my  designs. 

"  *  These  designs  consisted  in  forming  a  band  of  young 


62  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

men  of  gay  temper,  unscrupulous  and  reckless,  who  thence- 
forward would  live  joyously  on  the  product  of  their  valor  and 
at  the  cost  of  the  country,  until  God  should  please  to  dispose 
of  each  according  to  His  will,  as  happens  to  me  this  day. 

"  *  With  this  object  we  chose  this  district  as  the  theatre  of 
our  future  expeditions,  and  selected  as  the  point  most  suit- 
able for  our  gatherings  the  abandoned  castle  of  the  Segre,  a 
place  peculiarly  secure,  not  only  because  of  its  strong  and 
advantageous  position,  but  as  defended  against  the  peasantry 
by  their  superstitions  and  dread. 

"  *  Gathered  one  night  under  its  ruined  arcades,  around  a 
bonfire  that  illumined  with  its  ruddy  glow  the  deserted 
galleries,  a  heated  dispute  arose  as  to  which  of  us  should  be 
chosen  chief. 

"  '  Each  one  alleged  his  merits ;  I  advanced  my  claims  ; 
already  some  were  muttering  together  with  threatening  looks, 
and  others,  whose  voices  were  loud  in  drunken  quarrel,  had 
their  hands  on  the  hilts  of  their  poniards  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion, when  we  suddenly  heard  a  strange  rattling  of  armor, 
accompanied  by  hollow,  resounding  footsteps  which  became 
more  and  more  distinct.  We  all  cast  around  uneasy,  sus- 
picious glances.  We  rose  and  bared  our  blades,  determined 
to  sell  our  lives  dear,  but  we  could  only  stand  motionless  on 
seeing  advance,  with  firm  and  even  tread,  a  man  of  lofty 
stature,  completely  armed  from  head  to  foot,  his  face  covered 
with  the  visor  of  his  helmet.  Drawing  his  broad-sword, 
which  two  men  could  scarcely  wield,  and  placing  it  upon  one 
of  the  charred  fragments  of  the  fallen  arcades,  he  exclaimed 
in  a  voice  hollow  and  deep  like  the  murmurous  fall  of  sub- 
terranean waters : 

"  *  -^  any  one  of  you  dare  to  be  first ^  while  I  dwell  in  the 
castle  of  the  Segre,  let  him  take  up  this  sword,  emblem  of  power, 

"  *  All  were  silent  until,  the  first  moment  of  astonishment 
passed,  with  loud  voices  we  proclaimed  him  our  captain, 


THE  DEVIL'S  CROSS  6j 

offering  him  a  glass  of  our  wine.  This  he  declined  by  signs, 
perchance  that  he  need  not  reveal  his  face,  which  in  vain  we 
strove  to  distinguish  across  the  iron  bars  hiding  it  from  our 
eyes. 

"  '  Nevertheless  we  swore  that  night  the  most  terrible  oaths, 
and  on  the  following  began  our  nocturnal  raids.  In  these, 
our  mysterious  chief  went  always  at  our  head.  Fire  does  not 
stop  him,  nor  dangers  intimidate  him,  nor  tears  move  him. 
He  never  speaks,  but  when  blood  smokes  on  our  hands, 
when  churches  fall  devoured  by  the  flames,  when  women 
flee  affrighted  amid  the  ruins,  and  children  utter  screams  of 
pain,  and  the  old  men  perish  under  our  blows,  he  answers 
the  groans,  the  imprecations  and  the  lamentations  with  a 
loud  laugh  of  savage  joy. 

'' '  Never  does  he  lay  aside  his  arms  nor  lift  the  visor  of 
his  helmet  after  victory  nor  take  part  in  the  feast  nor  yield 
himself  to  slumber.  The  swords  that  strike  him  pierce  his 
armor  without  causing  death  or  drawing  blood ;  fire  reddens 
His  coat  of  mail  and  yet  he  pushes  on  undaunted  amid  the 
flames,  seeking  new  victims  ;  he  scorns  gold,  despises  beauty, 
and  is  not  moved  by  ambition. 

"  *  Among  ourselves,  some  think  him  a  madman,  others  a 
ruined  noble  who  from  a  remnant  of  shame  conceals  his 
face,  and  there  are  not  wanting  those  who  are  persuaded  that 
it  is  the  yery  Devil  in  person.' 

"  The  author  of  these  revelations  died  with  a  mocking 
smile  on  his  lips  and  without  repenting  of  his  sins ;  divers 
of  his  comrades  followed  him  at  different  times  to  meet  their 
punishment,  but  the  dreaded  chief,  to  whom  continually 
gathered  new  proselytes,  did  not  cease  his  ravages. 

"  The  unhappy  inhabitants  of  the  region,  more  and  more 
harassed  and  desperate,  had  not  yet  achieved  that  pitch  of 
resolution  necessary  to  put  an  end,  once  for  all,  to  this  order 
of  things,  every  day  more  insupportable  and  grievous. 


64  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"  Adjoining  the  hamlet  and  hidden  in  the  depths  of  a  dense 
forest,  there  dwelt  at  this  time,  in  a  little  hermitage  dedicated 
to  Saint  Bartholomew,  a  holy  man  of  godly  and  exemplary 
life,  whom  the  peasants  always  held  in  an  odor  of  sanctity, 
thanks  to  his  wholesome  counsels  and  sure  predictions. 

"  This  venerable  hermit,  to  whose  prudence  and  proverbial 
wisdom  the  people  of  Bellver  committed  the  solution  of  their 
difficult  problem,  after  seeking  divine  aid  through  his  patron 
saint,  who,  as  you  know,  is  well  acquainted  with  the  Devil, 
and  on  more  than  one  occasion  has  put  him  in  a  tight  place, 
advised  that  they  should  lie  in  ambush  during  the  night  at 
the  foot  of  the  stony  road  which  winds  up  to  the  rock  on 
whose  summit  stands  the  castle.  He  charged  them  at  the 
same  time  that,  once  there,  they  should  use  no  other  weapons 
to  apprehend  the  Enemy  than  a  wonderful  prayer  which  he 
had  them  commit  to  memory,  and  with  which  the  chronicles 
assert  that  Saint  Bartholomew  had  made  the  Devil  his 
prisoner. 

"  The  plan  was  put  into  immediate  execution,  and  its  suc- 
cess exceeded  all  hopes,  for  the  morrow's  sun  had  not  lit  the 
high  tower  of  Bellver  when  its  inhabitants  gathered  in  groups 
in  the  central  square,  telling  one  another  with  an  air  of  mystery 
how,  that  night,  the  famous  captain  of  the  banditti  of  the 
Segre  had  come  into  the  town  bound  hand  and  foot  and 
securely  tied  to  the  back  of  a  strong  mule. 

"  By  what  art  the  actors  in  this  enterprise  had  brought  it 
to  such  fortunate  issue  no  one  succeeded  in  finding  out  nor 
were  they  themselves  able  to  tell ;  but  the  fact  remained 
that,  thanks  to  the  prayer  of  the  Saint  or  to  the  daring  of  his 
devotees,  the  attempt  had  resulted  as  narrated. 

"  As  soon  as  the  news  began  to  spread  from  mouth  to 
mouth  and  from  house  to  house,  throngs  rushed  into  the 
streets  with  loud  huzzas  and  were  soon  massed  before 
the  doors  of  the  prison.     The  parish  bell  called  together  the 


THE  DEVIL'S  CROSS.  65 

civic  body,  the  most  substantial  citizens  met  in  council,  and 
all  awaited  in  suspense  the  hour  when  the  criminal  should 
appear  before  his  improvised  judges. 

"  These  judges,  who  were  authorized  by  the  sovereign 
power  of  Urgel  to  administer  themselves  justice  prompt  and 
stern  to  those  malefactors,  deliberated  but  a  moment,  after 
which  they  commanded  that  the  culprit  be  brought  before 
them  to  receive  his  sentence. 

"  As  I  have  said,  as  in  the  central  square,  so  in  the  streets 
through  which  the  prisoner  must  pass  to  the  place  where  he 
should  meet  his  judges,  the  impatient  multitude  thronged  like 
a  clustered  swarm  of  bees.  Especially  at  the  gateway  of 
the  prison  the  popular  excitement  mounted  from  moment  to 
moment,  and  already  animated  dialogues,  sullen  mutterings 
and  threatening  shouts  had  begun  to  give  the  warders  anxiety, 
when  fortunately  the  order  came  to  bring  forth  the  criminal. 

"  As  he  appeared  below  the  massive  arch  of  the  prison 
portal,  in  complete  armor,  his  face  covered  with  the  visor,  a 
low,  prolonged  murmur  of  admiration  and  surprise  rose  from 
the  compact  multitude  which  with  difficulty  opened  to  let  him 
pass. 

"  All  had  recognized  in  that  coat  of  mail  the  well-known 
armor  of  the  Count  of  the  Segre,  that  armor  which  had  been 
the  object  of  the  most  gloomy  traditions  while  it  had  been 
hanging  from  the  ruined  walls  of  the  accursed  stronghold. 

"  This  was  that  armor  ;  there  was  left  no  room  for  doubt. 
All  had  seen  the  black  plume  waving  from  his  helmet's  crest 
in  the  battles  which  formerly  they  had  fought  against  their 
lord  ;  all  had  seen  it,  blowing  in  the  morning  breeze,  like 
the  ivy  of  the  flame-gnawed  pillar  on  which  the  armor  had 
hung  since  the  death  of  its  owner.  But  who  could  be  the 
unknown  personage  who  was  wearing  it  now  ?  Soon  it 
would  be  known  ;  at  least,  so  they  thought.  Events  will 
show  how  this  expectation,  like  many  another,  was  frustrated 


66  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

and  how  out  of  this  solemn  act  of  justice,  from  which  might 
have  been  expected  a  complete  revelation  of  the  truth,  there 
resulted  new  and  more  inexplicable  confusions. 

"  The  mysterious  bandit  arrived  finally  at  the  Council  Hall 
and  a  profound  silence  followed  the  murmurs  which  had 
arisen  among  the  bystanders  on  hearing  resound  beneath 
the  lofty  arches  of  that  chamber  the  click  of  his  golden  spurs. 
One  of  the  members  of  the  tribunal  in  a  slow  and  uncertain 
voice  asked  his  name,  and  all  anxiously  listened  that  they 
might  not  lose  one  word  of  his  response,  but  the  warrior 
only  shrugged  his  shoulders  lightly  with  an  air  of  contempt 
and  insult,  which  could  but  irritate  his  judges,  who  exchanged 
glances  of  surprise. 

"  Three  times  the  question  was  repeated,  and  as  often 
received  the  same  or  a  similar  reply. 

"  •  Have  him  lift  his  visor  !  Have  him  show  his  face  1 
Have  him  show  his  face  1 '  the  citizens  present  at  the  trial 
began  to  shout.  *  Have  him  show  his  face  !  We  will  see  if 
then  he  dare  insult  us  with  his  contempt,  as  he  does  now 
hidden  in  his  mail.' 

"  *  Show  your  face,'  demanded  the  same  member  of  the 
tribunal  who  had  before  addressed  him. 

"  The  warrior  remained  motionless. 

"  *  I  command  you  by  the  authority  of  this  council.* 

"  The  same  answer. 

"  '  By  the  authority  of  this  realm.* 

"  Nor  for  that. 

"  Indignation  rose  to  its  height,  even  to  the  point  where 
one  of  the  guards,  throwing  himself  upon  the  criminal,  whose 
pertinacious  silence  was  enough  to  exhaust  the  patience  of  a 
saint,  violently  opened  his  visor.  A  general  cry  of  surprise 
escaped  from  those  within  the  hall,  who  remained  for  an  in- 
stant smitten  with  an  inconceivable  amazement. 

"  The  cause  was  adequate. 


I 


THE  DEVIVS  CROSS  67 

"  The  helmet,  whose  iron  visor,  as  all  could  see,  was  partly 
lifted  toward  the  forehead,  partly  fallen  over  the  shining  steel 
gorget,  was  empty, — entirely  empty. 

"  When,  the  first  moment  of  terror  passed,  they  would  have 
touched  it,  the  armor  shivered  slightly  and,  breaking  asunder 
into  its  various  pieces,  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  dull,  strange 
clang. 

"  The  greater  part  of  the  spectators,  at  the  sight  of  the  new 
prodigy,  forsook  the  room  tumultuously  and  rushed  in  terror 
to  the  square. 

"  The  news  spread  with  the  speed  of  thought  among  the 
multitude  who  were  awaiting  impatiently  the  result  of  the  trial ; 
and  such  was  the  alarm,  the  excitement  and  the  clamor,  that 
no  one  longer  doubted  what  the  popular  voice  had  asserted 
from  the  first — that  the  Devil,  on  the  death  of  the  Count  of 
the  Segre,  had  inherited  the  fiefs  of  Bellver. 

"  At  last  the  tumult  subsided,  and  it  was  decided  to  re- 
turn the  miraculous  armor  to  the  dungeon. 

"  When  this  was  so  bestowed,  they  despatched  four  envoys, 
who,  as  representing  the  perplexed  town,  should  present  the 
case  to  the  royal  Count  of  Urgel  and  the  archbishop.  In  a 
few  days  these  envoys  returned  with  the  decision  of  those 
dignitaries,  a  decision  brief  and  comprehensive. 

" '  Let  the  armor  be  hanged,'  they  said',  *  in  the  central 
square  of  the  town ;  if  the  Devil  occupies  it,  he  will  find  it 
necessary  to  abandon  it  or  to  be  strangled  with  it.' 

"  The  people  of  Bellver,  enchanted  with  so  ingenious  a 
solution,  again  assembled  in  council,  ordered  a  very  high  gal- 
lows to  be  erected  in  the  square,  and  when  once  more  the  mul- 
titude filled  the  approaches  to  the  prison,  went  thither  for  the 
armor  in  a  body  with  all  the  civic  dignity  which  the  import- 
ance of  the  case  demanded. 

"  When  this  honorable  delegation  arrived  at  the  massive 
arch  giving  entrance  to  the  building,  a  pallid  and  distracted 


68  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

man  threw  himself  to  the  ground  in  the  presence  of  the  as- 
tonished bystanders,  exclaiming  with  tears  in  his  eyes : 

"  *  Pardon,  senores,  pardon  1  " 

"  *  Pardon  I  For  whom  ?  '  said  some,  '  for  the  Devil,  who 
dwells  in  the  armor  of  the  Count  of  the  Segre  ? ' 

"  *  For  me,'  continued  with  shaking  voice  the  unhappy  man 
in  whom  all  recognized  the  chief  warden  of  the  prison,  '  for 
me — because  the  armor — has  disappeared.' 

"  On  hearing  these  words,  amazement  was  painted  on  the 
faces  of  as  many  as  were  in  the  portico ;  silent  and  motion- 
less, so  they  would  have  remained  God  knows  how  long  if 
the  following  narrative  of  the  terrified  keeper  had  not  caused 
them  to  gather  in  groups  around  him,  greedy  for  every  word. 

"  *  Pardon  me,  senores^'  said  the  poor  warden,  *  and  I  will 
conceal  nothing  from  you,  however  much  it  may  be  against 
me.' 

"  All  maintained  silence  and  he  went  on  as  follows : 

"  *  I  shall  never  succeed  in  giving  the  reason,  but  the  fact 
is  that  the  story  of  the  empty  armor  always  seemed  to  me  a 
fable  manufactured  in  favor  of  some  noble  personage  whom 
perhaps  grave  reasons  of  public  policy  did  not  permit  the 
judges  to  make  known  or  to  punish. 

"  '  I  was  ever  of  this  belief — a  belief  in  which  I  could  not 
but  be  confirmed  by  the  immobility  in  which  the  armor  re- 
mained from  the  hour  when,  by  the  order  of  the  tribunal,  it 
was  brought  a  second  time  to  the  prison.  In  vain,  night 
after  night,  desiring  to  surprise  its  secret,  if  secret  there  were, 
I  crept  up  little  by  little  and  listened  at  the  cracks  of  the  iron 
door  of  its  dungeon.     Not  a  sound  was  perceptible. 

"  *  In  vain  I  managed  to  observe  it  through  a  small  hole 
made  in  the  wall ;  thrown  upon  a  little  straw  in  one  of  the 
darkest  corners,  it  remained  day  after  day  disordered  and 
motionless. 

"  *  One  night,  at  last,  pricked  by  curiosity  and  wishing  to 


THE  DEVIL'S  CROSS  69 

convince  myself  that  this  object  of  terror  had  nothing 
mysterious  about  it,  I  Hghted  a  lantern,  went  down  to  the 
dungeons,  drew  their  double  bolts  and,  not  taking  the  pre- 
caution to  shut  the  doors  behind  me,  so  firm  was  my  belief 
that  all  this  was  no  more  than  an  old  wives'  tale,  entered  the 
cell.  Would  I  had  never  done  it !  Scarcely  had  I  taken  a 
few  steps  when  the  light  of  my  lantern  went  out  of  itself  and 
my  teeth  began  to  chatter  and  my  hair  to  rise.  Breaking 
the  profound  silence  that  encompassed  me,  I  had  heard 
something  like  a  sound  of  metal  pieces  which  stirred  and 
clanked  in  fitting  themselves  together  in  the  gloom. 

"  '  My  first  movement  was  to  throw  myself  towatd  the  door 
to  bar  the  passage,  but  on  grasping  its  panels  I  felt  upon  my 
shoulders  a  formidable  hand,  gauntleted,  which,  after  jerking 
me  violently  aside,  flung  me  upon  the  threshold.  There  I 
remained  until  the  next  morning  when  my  subordinates  found 
me  unconscious  and,  on  reviving,  only  able  to  recollect  that 
after  my  fall  I  had  seemed  to  hear,  confusedly,  a  sounding 
tread  accompanied  by  the  clatter  of  spurs,  which  little  by  little 
grew  more  distant  until  it  died  away.* 

"  When  the  warden  had  finished,  profound  silence  reigned, 
on  which  there  followed  an  infernal  outbreak  of  lamentations, 
shouts  and  threats. 

"  It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  more  temperate  could  con- 
trol the  populace,  who,  infuriated  at  this  last  turn  of  affairs, 
demanded  with  fierce  outcry  the  death  of  the  inquisitive 
author  of  their  new  disappointment. 

"  At  last  the  tumult  was  quieted  and  the  people  began  to 
lay  plans  for  a  fresh  capture.  This  attempt,  too,  had  a 
satisfactory  outcome. 

"  At  the  end  of  a  few  days,  the  armor  was  again  in  the 
power  of  its  foes.  Now  that  the  formula  was  known  and 
the  help  of  Saint  Bartholomew  secured,  the  thing  was  no 
longer  very  difficult. 


yo  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"  But  yet  something  remained  to  be  done ;  in  vain,  after 
conquering  it,  they  hanged  it  from  a  gallows ;  in  vain  they 
exercised  the  utmost  vigilance  for  the  purpose  of  giving  it 
no  opportunity  to  escape  by  way  of  the  upper  world.  But  as 
soon  as  two  fingers*  breadth  of  light  fell  on  the  scattered 
pieces  of  armor,  they  fitted  themselves  together  and,  clinkity 
clank,  made  off  again  to  resume  their  raids  over  mountain 
and  plain,  which  was  a  blessing  indeed. 

"  This  was  a  story  without  an  end. 

"  In  so  critical  a  state  of  affairs,  the  people  divided  among 
themselves  the  pieces  of  the  armor  that,  perchance  for  the 
hundredth  time,  had  come  into  their  possession,  and  prayed 
the  pious  hermit,  who  had  once  before  enlightened  them  with 
his  counsel,  to  decide  what  they  should  do  with  it. 

"  The  holy  man  ordained  a  general  fast.  He  buried  him- 
self for  three  days  in  the  depths  of  a  cavern  that  served 
him  as  a  retreat  and  at  their  end  bade  them  melt  the  diabol- 
ical armor  and  with  this  and  some  hewn  stones  from  the 
castle  of  the  Segre,  erect  a  cross. 

"  The  work  was  carried  through,  although  not  without  new 
and  fearful  prodigies  which  filled  with  terror  the  souls  of  the 
dismayed  inhabitants  of  Bellver. 

"  As  soon  as  the  pieces  thrown  into  the  flames  began  to 
redden,  long  and  deep  groans  seemed  to  come  out  of  the 
great  blaze,  within  whose  circle  of  fuel  the  armor  leapt  as  if 
it  were  alive  and  felt  the  action  of  the  fire.  A  whirl  of  sparks 
red,  green  and  blue  danced  on  the  points  of  the  spiring 
flames  and  twisted  about  hissing,  as  if  a  legion  of  devils, 
mounted  on  these,  would  fight  to  free  their  lord  from  that 
torment. 

"  Strange,  horrible,  was  the  process  by  which  the  incan- 
descent armor  lost  its  form  to  take  that  of  a  cross. 

"  The  hammers  fell  clanging  with  a  frightful  uproar  upon 
the  anvil,  where  twenty  sturdy  smiths  beat  into  shape  the 


THE  n EVIL'S  CROSS. 


71 


bars  of  boiling  metal  that  quivered  and  groaned  beneath  the 
blows. 

"  Already  the  arms  of  the  sign  of  our  redemption  were 
outspread,  already  the  upper  end  was  beginning  to  take  form, 
when  the  fiendish,  glowing  mass  writhed  anew,  as  if  in  fright- 
ful convulsion,  and  enfolding  the  unfortunate  workmen,  who 
struggled  to  free  themselves  from  its  deadly  embrace,  glit- 
tered in  rings  like  a  serpent  or  contracted  itself  in  zigzag  like 
lightning. 

"  Incessant  labor,  faith,  prayers  and  holy  water  succeeded, 
at  last,  in  overcoming  the  infernal  spirit,  and  the  armor  was 
converted  into  a  cross. 

"  This  cross  it  is  you  have  seen  to-day,  the  cross  in  which 
the  Devil  who  gives  it  its  name  is  bound.  Before  it  the  young 
people  in  the  month  of  May  place  no  clusters  of  lilies,  nor  do 
the  shepherds  uncover  as  they  pass  by,  nor  the  old  folk  kneel ; 
the  strict  admonitions  of  the  priest  scarcely  prevent  the  boys 
from  stoning  it. 

"  God  has  closed  His  ears  to  all  supplications  offered  Him 
in  its  presence.  In  the  winter,  packs  of  wolves  gather  about 
the  juniper  which  overshadows  it  to  rush  upon  the  herds ; 
banditti  wait  in  its  shade  for  travellers  whose  slain  bodies 
they  bury  at  its  foot,  and  when  the  tempest  rages,  the  light- 
nings deviate  from  their  course  to  meet,  hissing,  at  the  head 
of  this  cross  and  to  rend  the  stones  of  its  pedestal." 


THREE  DATES 

In  a  portfolio  which  I  still  treasure,  full  of  idle  drawings 
made  during  some  of  my  semi-artistic  excursions  to  the  city 
of  Toledo,  are  written  three  dates. 

The  events  whose  memory  these  figures  keep  are  up  to  a 
certain  point  insignificant. 

Nevertheless,  by  recollecting  them  I  have  entertained  my- 
self on  certain  wakeful  nights  in  shaping  a  novel  more  or  less 
sentimental  or  sombre,  in  proportion  as  my  imagination  found 
itself  more  or  less  exalted,  and  disposed  toward  the  humor- 
ous or  tragic  view  of  life. 

If  on  the  morning  following  one  of  these  darkling,  delirious 
reveries,  I  had  tried  to  write  out  the  extraordinary  episodes  of 
the  impossible  fictions  which  I  invented  before  my  eyelids 
utterly  closed,  these  romances,  whose  dim  denouement  finally 
floats  undetermined  on  that  sea  between  waking  and  sleep, 
would  assuredly  form  a  book  of  preposterous  inconsistencies 
but  original  and  peradventure  interesting. 

This  is  not  what  I  am  attempting  now.  These  light — one 
might  almost  say  impalpable — fantasies  are  in  a  sense  like 
butterflies  which  cannot  be  caught  in  the  hands  without  there 
being  left  between  the  fingers  the  golden  dust  of  their  wings. 

I  am  going  to  confine  myself,  then,  to  the  brief  narration 
of  three  events  which  are  wont  to  serve  as  headings  for  the 
chapters  of  my  dream-novels  ;  the  three  isolated  points  which 
I  am  accustomed  to  connect  in  my  mind  by  a  series  of  ideas 
like  a  shining  thread  ;  the  three  themes,  in  short,  upon  which 
I  play  thousands  on  thousands  of  variations,  amounting  to 
what  might  be  called  absurd  symphonies  of  the  imagination. 

72 


THREE  DATES 


I. 


73 


There  is  in  Toledo  a  narrow  street,  crooked  and  dim, 
which  guards  so  faithfully  the  traces  of  the  hundred  genera- 
tions that  have  dwelt  in  it,  which  speaks  so  eloquently  to  the 
eyes  of  the  artist  and  reveals  to  him  so  many  secret  points 
of  affinity  between  the  ideas  and  customs  of  each  century, 
and  the  form  and  special  character  impressed  upon  even  its 
most  insignificant  works,  that  I  would  close  the  entrances 
with  a  barrier  and  place  above  the  barrier  a  shield  with  this 
device : 

"  In  the  name  of  poets  and  artists,  in  the  name  of  those 
who  dream  and  of  those  who  study,  civilization  is  forbidden 
to  touch  the  least  of  these  bricks  with  its  destructive  and 
prosaic  hand." 

At  one  of  the  ends  of  this  street,  entrance  is  afforded  by  a 
massive  arch,  flat  and  dark,  which  provides  a  covered  passage. 

In  its  keystone  is  an  escutcheon,  battered  now  and  cor- 
roded by  the  action  of  the  years ;  in  it  grows  ivy  which, 
blown  by  the  air,  floats  above  the  helmet,  that  crowns  it,  like 
a  plumy  crest. 

Below  the  vaulting  and  nailed  to  the  wall  is  seen  a  shrine 
with  a  sacred  picture  of  blackened  canvas  and  undecipher- 
able design,  in  frame  of  gilt  rococo,  with  its  lantern  hanging 
by  a  cord  and  with  its  waxen  votive  offerings. 

Leading  away  from  this  arch,  which  enfolds  the  whole  place 
in  its  shadow,  giving  to  it  an  undescribable  tint  of  mystery 
and  sadness,  extend  on  the  two  sides  of  the  street  lines  of 
dusky,  dissimilar,  odd-looking  houses,  each  having  its  indi- 
vidual form,  size  and  color.  Some  are  built  of  rough,  uneven 
stones,  without  other  adornment  than  a  few  armorial  bearings 
rudely  carved  above  the  portal ;  others  are  of  brick,  with  an 
Arab  arch  for  entrance,  two  or  three  Moorish  windows  open- 
ing at  caprice  in  a  thick,  fissured  wall,  and  a  glassed  observa- 


74  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

tion  turret  topped  by  a  lofty  weather-vane.  Some  have  a 
general  aspect  which  does  not  belong  to  any  order  of  archi- 
tecture and  yet  is  a  patchwork  of  all ;  some  are  finished 
models  of  a  distinct  and  recognized  style,  some  curious  ex- 
amples of  the  extravagances  of  an  artistic  period. 

Here  are  some  that  boast  a  wooden  balcony  with  incon- 
gruous roof  ;  there  are  others  with  a  Gothic  window  freshly 
whitened  and  adorned  with  pots  of  flowers ;  and  yonder  is 
one  with  crudely  colored  tiles  set  into  its  door-frame,  huge 
spikes  in  its  panels,  and  the  shafts  of  two  columns,  perhaps 
taken  from  a  Moorish  castle,  mortised  into  the  wall. 

The  palace  of  a  grandee  converted  into  a  tenement-house  ; 
the  home  of  a  pundit  occupied  by  a  prebendary  ;  a  Jewish 
synagogue  transformed  into  a  Christian  church ;  a  convent 
erected  on  the  ruins  of  an  Arab  mosque  whose  minaret  is 
still  standing ;  a  thousand  strange  and  picturesque  contrasts ; 
thousands  on  thousands  of  curious  traces  left  by  distinct  races, 
civilizations  and  epochs  epitomized,  so  to  speak,  on  one  hun- 
dred yards  of  ground.  All  the  past  is  in  this  one  street, 
— a  street  built  up  through  many  centuries,  a  narrow,  dim, 
disfigured  street  with  an  infinite  number  of  twists  where  each 
man  in  building  his  house  had  jutted  out  or  left  a  corner  or 
made  an  angle  to  suit  his  own  taste,  regardless  of  level,  height 
or  regularity, — a  street  rich  in  uncalculated  combinations  of 
lines,  whh  a  veritable  wealth  of  whimsical  details,  with  so 
many,  many  chance  effects  that  on  every  visit  it  offers  to  the 
student  something  new. 

When  I  was  first  at  Toledo,  while  I  was  busying  myself  in 
making  a  few  sketch-book  notes  of  San  Jua?i  de  los  Reyes^  I 
had  to  go  through  this  street  every  afternoon  in  order  to  reach 
the  convent  from  the  little  inn,  with  hotel  pretensions,  where 
I  lodged. 

Almost  always  I  would  traverse  the  street  from  one  end  to 
the  other  without  meeting  a  single  person,  without  any  further 


,# 


CLOISTER  OF  SAN  JUAN  DE  LOS  REYES 


OF  TH€ 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THREE  DATES  y^ 

sound  than  my  own  footfalls  disturbing  the  deep  silence,  with- 
out even  catching  a  chance  glimpse,  behind  balcony-blind, 
door-screen  or  casement-lattice,  of  the  wrinkled  face  of  a  peer- 
ing old  woman,  or  the  great  black  eyes  of  a  Toledan  girl. 
Sometimes  I  seemed  to  myself  to  be  walking  through  the 
midst  of  a  deserted  city,  abandoned  by  its  inhabitants  since 
ages  far  remote. 

Yet  one  afternoon,  on  passing  in  front  of  a  very  ancient, 
gloomy  mansion,  in  whose  lofty,  massive  walls  might  be  seen 
three  or  four  windows  of  dissimilar  form,  placed  without  order 
or  symmetry,  I  happened  to  fix  my  attention  on  one  of  these. 
It  was  formed  by  a  great  ogee  arch  surrounded  by  a  wreath 
of  sharply  pointed  leaves.  The  arch  was  closed  in  by  a  light 
wall,  recently  built  and  white  as  snow.  In  the  middle  of  this, 
as  if  contained  in  the  original  window,  might  be  seen  a  little 
casement  with  frame  and  gratings  painted  green,  with  a  flower- 
pot of  blue  morning-glories  whose  sprays  were  clambering  up 
over  the  granite-work,  and  with  panes  of  leaded  glass  cur- 
tained by  white  cloth  thin  and  translucent. 

The  window  of  itself,  peculiar  as  it  was,  would  have  been 
enough  to  arrest  the  gaze,  but  the  circumstance  most  effec- 
tive in  fixing  my  attention  upon  it  was  that,  just  as  I  turned 
my  head  to  look  at  it,  the  curtain  had  been  lifted  for  a  moment 
only  to  fall  again,  concealing  from  my  eyes  the  person  who 
undoubtedly  was  at  that  same  instant  looking  after  me. 

I  pursued  my  way  preoccupied  with  the  idea  of  the  window, 
or,  rather,  the  curtain,  or,  to  put  it  still  more  clearly,  the  woman 
who  had  raised  it,  for  beyond  all  doubt  only  a  woman  could 
be  peeping  out  from  that  window  so  poetic,  so  white,  so  green, 
so  full  of  flowers,  and  when  I  say  a  woman,  be  it  understood 
that  she  is  imaged  as  young  and  beautiful. 

The  next  afternoon  I  passed  the  house, — passed  with  the 
same  close  scrutiny  ;  I  rapped  down  my  heels  sharply,  aston- 
ishing the  silent  street  with  the  clatter  of  my  steps,  a  clatter 


76  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

that  repeated  itself  in  responsive  echoes,  one  after  another ; 
I  looked  at  the  window  and  the  curtain  was  raised  again. 

The  plain  truth  is  that  behind  the  curtain  I  saw  nothing 
at  all ;  but  by  aid  of  the  imagination  I  seemed  to  discern  a 
figure, —  the  figure,  in  fact,  of  a  woman. 

That  day  twice  or  thrice  I  fell  into  a  muse  over  my  draw- 
ing. And  on  other  days  I  passed  the  house,  and  always  when 
I  was  passing  the  curtain  would  be  raised  again,  remaining 
so  till  the  sound  of  my  steps  was  lost  in  the  distance  and  I 
from  afar  had  looked  back  at  it  for  the  last  time. 

My  sketches  were  making  but  little  progress.  In  that 
cloister  of  San  Juan  de  los  Reyes,  in  that  cloister  so  mys- 
terious and  bathed  in  so  profound  a  melancholy, — seated  on 
the  broken  capital  of  a  column,  my  portfolio  on  my  knees, 
my  elbows  on  my  portfolio,  and  my  head  between  my  hands, 
— to  the  music  of  water  which  flows  there  with  an  incessant 
murmur,  to  the  rustling  of  leaves  under  the  evening  wind  in 
the  wild,  forsaken  garden,  what  dreams  did  I  not  dream  of 
that  window  and  that  woman  !  I  knew  her ;  I  knew  her 
name  and  even  the  color  of  her  eyes. 

I  would  see  her  crossing  the  wide  and  lonely  courts  of  that 
most  ancient  house,  rejoicing  them  with  her  presence  as  a 
sunbeam  gilds  a  pile  of  ruins.  Again  I  would  seem  to  see 
her  in  a  garden  of  very  lofty,  very  shadowy  walls,  among 
colossal,  venerable  trees,  such  as  there  ought  to  be  at  the 
back  of  that  sort  of  Gothic  palace  where  she  lived,  gathering 
flowers  and  seating  herself  alone  on  a  stone  bench  and  there 
sighing  while  she  plucked  them  leaf  from  leaf  thinking  on — 
who  knows  ?  Perchance  on  me.  Why  say  perchance  ?  As- 
suredly on  me.  Oh,  what  dreams,  what  follies,  what 
poetry  did  that  window  awaken  in  my  soul  while  I  abode  at 
Toledo  I 

But  my  allotted  time  for  sojourning  in  that  city  went  by. 
One  day,  heavy  of  heart  and  pensive  of  mood,  I  shut  up  all 


THREE  DATES  77 

my  drawings  in  the  portfolio,  bade  farewell  to  the  world  of 
fancy,  and  took  a  seat  in  the  coach  for  Madrid. 

Before  the  highest  of  the  Toledo  towers  had  faded  on  the 
horizon,  I  thrust  my  head  from  the  carriage  window  to  see  it 
once  more,  and  remembered  the  street. 

I  still  held  the  portfolio  under  my  arm,  and  on  taking  my 
seat  again,  while  we  rounded  the  hill  which  suddenly  hid  the 
city  from  my  eyes,  I  drew  out  my  pencil  and  set  down  a  date. 
It  is  the  first  of  the  three,  and  the  one  which  I  call  the  Date 
of  the  Window. 

11. 

At  the  end  of  several  months,  I  again  had  an  opportunity 
to  leave  the  Capital  for  three  or  four  days.  I  dusted  my 
portfolio,  tucked  it  under  my  arm,  provided  myself  with  a 
quire  of  paper,  a  half-dozen  pencils  and  a  few  napoleons 
and,  deploring  the  fact  that  the  railroad  was  not  yet  finished, 
.crowded  myself  into  a  public  stage  that  I  might  journey  in 
reverse  order  through  the  scenes  of  Tirso's  famous  comedy 
From  Toledo  to  Madrid. 

Once  installed  in  the  historic  city,  I  devoted  myself  to 
visiting  again  the  spots  which  had  most  excited  my  interest 
on  my  former  trip,  and  certain  others  which  as  yet  I  knew 
only  by  name. 

Thus  I  let  slip  by,  in  long,  solitary  rambles  among  the 
most  ancient  quarters  of  the  town,  the  greater  part  of  the 
time  which  I  could  spare  for  my  little  artistic  expedition, 
finding  a  veritable  pleasure  in  losing  myself  in  that  confused 
labyrinth  of  blind  lanes,  narrow  streets,  dark  passages  and 
steep,  impracticable  heights. 

One  afternoon,  the  last  that  I  might  at  that  time  remain 
in  Toledo,  after  one  of  these  long  wanderings  in  unknown 
ways,  I  arrived — by  what  streets  I  can  scarcely  tell — at  a 
great  deserted  square,  apparently  forgotten  by  the  very  in- 


yS  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

habitants  of  the  city  and  hidden  away,  as  it  were,  in  one 
of  its  most  remote  nooks. 

The  filth  and  the  rubbish  cast  out  in  this  square  from  time 
immemorial  had  identified  themselves,  if  I  may  say  so,  with 
the  earth  in  such  a  manner  as  to  present  the  broken  and 
mountainous  aspect  of  a  miniature  Switzerland.  On  the 
hillocks  and  in  the  valleys  formed  by  these  irregularities  were 
growing  at  their  own  will  wild  mallows  of  colossal  proportions, 
circles  of  giant  nettles,  creeping  tangles  of  white  morning- 
glories,  stretches  of  that  nameless,  common  herb,  small,  fine 
and  of  a  darkish  green,  and  among  these,  swaying  gently  in 
the  light  breath  of  the  air,  overtopping  like  kings  all  the  other 
parasitic  plants,  the  no  less  poetic  than  vulgar  yellow  mustard, 
true  flower  of  wastes  and  ruins. 

Scattered  along  the  ground,  some  half  buried,  others  al- 
most hidden  by  the  tall  weeds,  might  be  seen  an  infinite 
number  of  fragments  of  thousands  on  thousands  of  diverse 
articles,  broken  and  thrown  out  on  that  spot  in  different 
epochs,  where  they  were  in  process  of  forming  strata  in 
which  it  would  be  easy  to  follow  out  a  course  of  genealogical 
history. 

Moorish  tiles  enamelled  in  various  colors,  sections  of 
marble  and  of  jasper  columns,  fragments  of  brick  of  a  hun- 
dred varying  kinds,  great  blocks  covered  with  verdure  and 
moss,  pieces  of  wood  already  nearly  turned  to  dust,  remains 
of  antique  panelling,  rags  of  cloth,  strips  of  leather,  and 
countless  other  objects,  formless,  nameless,  were  what  at  first 
sight  appeared  on  the  surface,  even  while  the  attention  was 
caught  and  the  eyes  dazzled  by  glancing  sparks  of  light 
sprinkled  over  the  green  like  a  handful  of  diamonds  flung 
broadcast  and  which,  on  closer  survey,  proved  to  be  nothing 
else  than  tiny  bits  of  glass  and  of  glazed  earthenware, — pots, 
plates,  pitchftfs,-^that,  flashing  back  the  sunlight,  counter- 
feited a  very  heaven  of  microscopic,  glittering  stars. 

4 


THREE  DA  TES  79 

Such  was  the  flooring  of  that  square,  though  actually  paved 
in  some  places  with  small  pebbles  of  various  colors  arranged 
in  patterns,  and  in  others  covered  with  great  slabs  of  slate, 
but  in  the  main,  as  we  have  just  said,  like  a  garden  of  par- 
asitic plants  or  a  waste  and  weedy  field. 

Nor  were  the  buildings  which  outlined  its  irregular  form 
less  strange  and  worthy  of  study.  On  one  side  it  was  bounded 
by  a  line  of  dingy  little .  houses,  the  roofs  twinkling  with 
chimneys,  weathercocks  and  overhangs,  the  marble  guard- 
posts  fastened  to  the  corners  with  iron  rings,  the  balconies 
low  or  narrow,  the  small  windows  set  with  flower-pots,  and 
the  hanging  lantern  surrounded  by  a  wire  network  to  protect 
its  smoky  glass  from  the  missiles  of  the  street  urchins. 

Another  boundary  was  constituted  by  a  great,  time-black- 
ened wall  full  of  chinks  and  crevices,  from  which,  amid 
patches  of  moss,  peeped  out,  with  little  bright  eyes,  the  heads 
of  various  reptiles, — a  wall  exceedingly  high,  formed  of  bulky 
blocks  sprinkled  over  with  hollows  for  doors  and  balconies 
that  had  been  closed  up  with  stone  and  mortar,  and  on  one 
of  whose  extremities  joined,  forming  an  angle  with  it,  a  wall 
of  brick  stripped  of  its  plaster  and  full  of  rough  holes, 
daubed  at  intervals  with  streaks  of  red,  green  and  yellow  and 
crowned  with  a  thatch  of  hay,  in  and  out  of  which  ran  sprays 
of  climbing  plants. 

This  was  no  more,  so  to  speak,  than  the  side  scenery  of 
the  strange  stage-setting  which,  as  I  made  my  way  into  the 
square,  suddenly  presented  itself  to  view,  captivating  my 
mind  and  holding  it  spell-bound  for  a  space,  for  the  true 
culminating  point  of  the  panorama,  the  edifice  which  gave  it 
its  general  tone,  rose  at  the  rear  of  the  square,  more  whim- 
sical, more  original,  infinitely  more  beautiful  in  its  artistic 
disorder  than  all  the  buildings  about. 

"Here  is  what  I  have  been  wanting  to  find,"  I  exclaimed 
on  seeing  it,  and  seating  myself  on  a  rough  piece  of  marble, 


8o  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

placing  my  portfolio  on  my  knees  and  sharpening  a  pencil, 
I  made  ready  to  sketch,  though  only  in  outline,  its  irregular 
and  eccentric  form  that  I  might  ever  keep  it  in  memory.  , 

If  I  could  fasten  on  here  with  wafers  the  very  slight  and 
ill-drawn  sketch  of  this  building  that  I  still  keep,  imperfect 
and  impressionistic  though  it  is,  it  would  save  me  a  mountain 
of  words,  giving  to  my  readers  a  truer  idea  of  it  than  all  the 
descriptions  imaginable. 

But  since  this  may  not  be,  I  will  try  to  depict  it  as  best  I 
can,  so  that  the  readers  of  these  lines  may  form  a  remote 
conception  if  not  of  its  infinite  details,  at  least  of  its  effect  as 
a  whole. 

Imagine  an  Arab  palace  with  horse-shoe  portals,  its  walls 
adorned  by  long  rows  of  arches  with  hundreds  of  intercross- 
ings,  running  over  a  stripe  of  brilliant  tiles ;  here  is  seen 
the  recess  of  an  arched  window,  cut  in  two  by  a  group  of 
slender  colonnettes  and  enclosed  in  a  frame  of  exquisite, 
fanciful  ornament ;  there  rises  a  watch-tower  with  its  light 
and  airy  turret,  roofed  with  glazed  tiles  of  green  and  yellow, 
its  keen  golden  arrow  losing  itself  in  the  void ;  further  on  is 
descried  the  cupola  that  covers  a  chamber  painted  in  gold 
and  blue,  or  lofty  galleries  closed  with  green  Venetian  blinds 
which  on  opening  reveal  gardens  with  walks  of  myrtle,  groves 
of  laurel,  and  high-jetting  fountains.  All  is  unique,  all  har- 
monious, though  unsymmetrical ;  all  gives  one  a  glimpse  of 
the  luxury  and  the  marvels  of  its  interior ;  all  lets  one  divine 
the  character  and  the  customs  of  its  inmates. 

The  wealthy  Arab  who  owned  this  edifice  finally  abandons 
it ;  the  process  of  the  years  begins  to  disintegrate  the  walls, 
dim  their  colors  and  even  corrode  their  marbles.  A  king  of 
Castile  then  chooses  for  his  residence  that  already  crumbling 
palace,  and  at  this  point  he  breaks  the  front,  opening  an  ogee 
and  adorning  it  with  a  border  of  escutcheons  through  whose 
midst  is  curled  a  garland  of  thistles  and  clover ;  yonder  he 


THREE  DATES  8i 

raises  a  massive  fortress-tower  of  hewn  stone  with  narrow 
loopholes  and  pointed  battlements  ;  further  along  he  builds 
on  a  wing  of  lofty,  gloomy  rooms,  where  may  be  seen,  in 
curious  fellowship,  stretches  of  shining  tiles,  dusky  vaulting, 
or  a  solitary  Arab  window,  or  a  horse-shoe  arch,  light 
and  elegant,  giving  entrance  to  a  Gothic  hall,  austere  and 
grand. 

But  there  comes  a  day  when  the  king,  too,  abandons  this 
dwelling,  passing  it  over  to  a  community  of  nuns,  and  these 
in  their  turn  remodel  it,  adding  new  features  to  the  already 
strange  physiognomy  of  the  Moorish  palace.  They  lattice 
the  windows  ;  between  two  Arab  arches  they  set  the  symbol 
of  their  faith,  carved  in  granite  ;  where  tamarinds  and  laurels 
used  to  grow  they  plant  sad  and  gloomy  cypresses ;  and 
making  use  of  some  remnants  of  the  old  edifice,  and  build- 
ing on  top  of  others,  they  form  the  most  picturesque  and  in- 
congruous combinations  conceivable. 

Above  the  main  portal  of  the  church,  where  may  be  dimly 
seen,  as  if  enveloped  in  the  mystic  twilight  made  by  the 
shadows  of  their  canopies,  a  broadside  of  saints,  angels  and 
virgins  at  whose  feet  are  twisted — among  acanthus  leaves — 
stone  serpents,  monsters  and  dragons,  rises  a  slender  min- 
aret filagreed  over  with  Moorish  work  ;  close  below  the  loop- 
holes of  the  battlemented  walls,  whose  merlons  are  now  broken, 
they  place  a  shrine  with  a  sacred  fresco  ;  and  they  close  up 
the  great  slits  with  thin  partitions  decorated  with  little  squares 
like  a  chess-board ;  they  put  crosses  on  all  the  pinnacles, 
and  finally  they  rear  a  spire  full  of  bells  which  peal  mourn- 
fully night  and  day  calling  to  prayer, — bells  which  swing  at 
the  impulsion  of  an  unseen  hand,  bells  whose  far-off  sound 
sometimes  draws  from  the  listener  tears  of  involuntary  grief. 

Still  the  years  are  passing  and  are  bathing  in  a  dull,  mellow, 
nondescript  hue  the  whole  edifice,  harmonizing  its  colors  and 
sowing  ivy  in  its  crevices. 


$2  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

White  storks  hang  their  nests  on  the  tower-vane,  martins 
build  under  the  eaves,  swallows  in  the  granite  canopies,  and 
the  owls  choose  for  their  haunt  lofty  holes  left  by  fallen 
stones,  whence  on  cloudy  nights  they  affright  superstitious 
old  women  and  timid  children  with  the  phosphoric  gleam 
of  their  round  eyes  and  their  shrill,  uncanny  hoots. 

Only  all  these  changes  of  fortune,  only  all  these  special 
circumstances  could  have  resulted  in  a  building  so  individual, 
so  full  of  contrasts,  of  poetry  and  of  memories  ag^the  one 
which  on  that  afternoon  presented  itself  to  my  view  and 
which  to-day  I  have  essayed,  albeit  in  vain,  to  describe  by 
words. 

I  had  drawn  it  in  part  on  one  of  the  leaves  of  my  sketch- 
book. The  sun  was  scarcely  gilding  the  highest  spires  of 
the  city,  the  evening  breeze  was  beginning  to  caress  my 
brow,  when  rapt  in  the  ideas  that  suddenly  had  assailed  me 
on  contemplating  the  silent  remains  of  other  eras  more  poetic 
than  the  material  age  in  which  we  live, suffocating  in  its  utter 
prose,  I  let  my  pencil  slip  from  my  fingers  and  gave  over  the 
drawing,  leaning  against  the  wall  at  my  back  and  yielding 
myself  up  completely  to  the  visions  of  imagination.  Of  what 
was  I  thinking  ?  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  tell.  I  clearly 
saw  epoch  succeeding  epoch,  walls  falling  and  other  walls 
rising  in  their  stead.  I  saw  men  or,  rather,  women  giving 
place  to  other  women,  and  the  first  and  those  who  came  after 
changing  into  dust  and  flying  like  dust  upon  the  air,  a  puff 
of  wind  bearing  away  beauty, — beauty  which  had  been  wont 
to  call  forth  secret  sighs,  to  engender  passions,  to  be  the 
source  of  ecstasies  ;  then — what  know  I  ? — all  confused  of 
thought,  I  saw  many  things  jumbled  together, — boudoirs  of 
cunning  work,  with  clouds  of  perfume  and  beds  of  flowers, 
strait  and  dreary  cells  with  prayer-stool  and  crucifix,  at  the 
foot  of  the  crucifix  an  open  book,  and  upon  the  book  a  skull ; 
stern  and  stately  halls,  hung  with  tapestries  and  adorned  with 


THREE  DA  TES 


83 


trophies  of  war ;  and  many  women  passing  and  still  repassing 
before  my  gaze,  tall  nuns  pale  and  thin,  brown  concubines 
with  reddest  lips  and  blackest  eyes  ;  great  dames  of  faultless 
profile,  high  bearing  and  majestic  gait. 

All  these  things  I  saw ;  and  many  more  of  those  which, 
though  visioned,  cannot  be  remembered ;  of  those  so  im- 
material that  it  is  impossible  to  confine  them  in  the  narrow 
compass  of  a  word, — when  suddenly  I  gave  a  bound  upon 
my  seat  and,  passing  my  hand  over  my  eyes  to  convince  my- 
self that  I  was  not  still  dreaming,  leaping  up  as  if  moved  by 
a  nerve-spring,  I  fastened  my  gaze  on  one  of  the  lofty  turrets 
of  the  convent.  I  had  seen — there  is  no  room  for  doubt 
— perfectly  had  I  seen  a  hand  of  transcendent  whiteness, 
which,  reaching  out  from  one  of  the  apertures  of  those  turrets 
mortared  like  chess-boards,  had  waved  several  times  as  if 
greeting  me  with  a  mute  and  loving  sign.  And  it  was  I 
whom  it  greeted ;  there  was  no  possibility  of  a  mistake  ;  I 
was  alone,  utterly  alone  in  the  square. 

In  vain  I  waited  till  night,  nailed  to  that  spot  and  without 
removing  my  eyes  for  an  instant  from  the  turret;  fruitlessly 
I  often  returned  to  take  up  my  watch  again  on  the  dark 
stone  which  had  served  me  for  seat  that  afternoon  when  I 
saw  appear  the  mysterious  hand,  already  the  object  of  my 
dreams  by  night  and  wildest  fantasies  by  day.  I  beheld  it 
nevermore. 

And  finally  came  the  hour  when  I  must  depart  from  Toledo, 
leaving  there,  as  a  useless  and  ridiculous  burden,  all  the 
illusions  which  in  its  bosom  had  been  raised  in  my  mind.  I 
turned  with  a  sigh  to  put  my  papers  together  in  my  portfolio ; 
but  before  securing  them  there,  I  wrote  another  date,  the 
second,  the  one  which  I  know  as  the  Date  of  the  Hand.  As 
I  wrote  it,  I  noticed  for  a  moment  the  earlier,  that  of  the 
Window,  and  could  not  but  smile  at  my  own  folly. 


84  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

III. 

From  the  time  of  the  strange  occurrence  which  I  have  just 
related  until  my  return  to  Toledo,  there  elapsed  about  a  year, 
during  which  the  memory  of  that  afternoon  was  still  present 
to  my  imagination,  at  first  constantly  and  in  full  detail,  then 
less  often,  and  at  last  so  vaguely  that  I  even  came  to  believe 
sometimes  that  I  had  been  the  sport  of  an  illusive  dream. 

Nevertheless,  scarcely  had  I  arrived  at  the  city  which 
some  with  good  reason  call  the  Spanish  Rome  than  this 
recollection  beset  me  anew  and  under  its  spell  I  set  forth  in 
absent-minded  fashion  to  roam  the  streets,  without  deter- 
mined direction,  with  no  preconceived  purpose  of  making 
my  way  to  any  special  point. 

The  day  was  gloomy  with  that  gloom  which  invades  all 
that  one  hears  and  sees  and  feels.  The  sky  was  the  color 
of  lead,  and  under  its  melancholy  shadow  the  houses  seemed 
older,  quainter  and  duskier  than  ever.  The  wind  moaned 
along  the  tortuous,  narrow  streets,  bearing  upon  its  gusts, 
like  the  lost  notes  of  a  mysterious  symphony,  unintelligible 
words,  the  peal  of  bells,  and  echoes  of  heavy,  far-off  blows. 
The  damp,  chill  air  froze  the  soul  with  its  icy  breath. 

I  wandered  for  several  hours  through  the  most  remote  and 
deserted  parts  of  the  city,  rapt  in  a  thousand  confused  imag- 
inings ;  and,  contrary  to  my  custom,  with  a  gaze  all  vague 
and  lost  in  space,  nor  could  my  attention  be  aroused  by  any 
playful  detail  of  architecture,  by  any  monument  of  an  un- 
known style,  by  any  marvellous  and  hidden  work  of  sculpture, 
by  any  one,  in  short,  of  those  rare  features  for  whose  minute 
examination  I  had  been  wont  to  pause  at  every  step,  at  times 
when  only  artistic  and  antiquarian  interests  held  sway  in  my  % 
mind. 

The  sky  was  continually  growing  darker ;  the  wind  was 
blowing  more  strongly  and  more  boisterously;  and  a  fine 


THREE  DATES.  85 

sleet  had  begun  to  fall,  very  keen  and  penetrating,  when  un- 
wittingly,— for  I  was  still  ignorant  of  the  way — and  as  if  borne 
thither  by  an  impulse  which  I  could  not  resist,  an  impulse 
whose  occult  force  had  brought  me  to  the  spot  whither  my 
thoughts  were  tending,  I  found  myself  in  the  lonely  square 
which  my  readers  already  know. 

On  finding  myself  in  that  place  I  sprang  to  clear  conscious- 
ness from  out  the  depths  of  that  lethargy  in  which  I  had 
been  sunken,  as  if  awakened  from  profound  slumber  by  a 
violent  shock. 

I  looked  about  me.  All  was  as  I  described  it — nay,  it 
was  more  dreary.  I  know  not  whether  this  gloom  was  due 
to  the  darkness  of  the  sky,  the  lack  of  verdure,  or  the  state 
of  my  own  spirit,  but  the  truth  is  that  between  the  feeling 
with  which  I  first  contemplated  that  spot  and  this  later  im- 
pression there  was  all  the  distance  which  lies  Between  poetic 
melancholy  and  personal  bitterness. 

For  some  moments  I  stood  gazing  at  the  sombre  convent, 
now  more  sombre  than  ever  to  my  eyes,  and  I  was  already 
on  the  point  of  withdrawing  when  my  ears  were  wounded  by 
the  sound  of  a  bell,  a  bell  of  broken,  husky  voice,  which  was 
tolling  slowly,  while  in  vivid  contrast  it  was  accompanied  by 
something  like  a  little  clapper-bell  which  suddenly  began  to 
revolve  with  the  rapidity  of  a  ringing  so  sharp  and  so  in- 
cessant that  it  seemed  to  have  been  seized  by  an  attack  of 
vertigo. 

Nothing  was  ever  stranger  than  that  edifice,  whose  black 
silhouette  was  outlined  against  the  sky  like  that  of  a  cliff 
bristling  with  thousands  of  freakish  points,  speaking  with 
tongues  of  bronze  through  bells  that  seemed  moved  by  the 
touch  of  invisible  powers,  the  one  weeping  with  smothered 
sobs,  the  other  laughing  with  shrill,  wild  outcry,  like  the 
laughter  of  a  madwoman. 

At  intervals  and  confused  with  the  bewildering  clamor  of 


86  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

the  bells,  I  seemed  to  hear,  too,  something  like  the  indistinct 
notes  of  an  organ  and  the  words  of  a  sacred,  solemn  chant. 

I  changed  my  intention  ;  and  instead  of  departing  I  ap- 
proached the  door  of  the  church  and  asked  one  of  the  ragged 
beggars  squatted  on  the  stone  steps : 

"  What  is  going  on  here  ?  " 

"  A  taking  of  the  veil,"  the  mendicant  answered,  interrup- 
ting the  prayer  which  he  was  muttering  between  his  teeth  to 
resume  it  later,  although  not  until  he  had  kissed  the  bit  of 
copper  that  I  dropped  into  his  hand  as  I  put  my  question. 

I  had  never  been  present  at  that  ceremony,  nor  had  I  ever 
seen  the  interior  of  the  convent  church.  Both  considerations 
impelled  me  to  enter. 

The  church  was  high  and  dark ;  its  aisles  were  defined  by 
two  rows  of  pillars  made  up  of  slender  columns  gathered  into 
sheaves  and  resting  on  broad  octagonal  bases,  while  from 
their  rich  crowning  of  capitals  sprang  the  vaulting  of  the 
strong  ogee  arches.  The  High  Altar  was  placed  at  the 
further  end  under  a  cupola  of  Renaissance  style  decorated 
with  great  shield-bearing  angels,  grifhns,  a  profusion  of  foli- 
age on  the  finials,  cornices  with  gilded  moldings  and  rosettes, 
and  odd,  elaborate  frescoes.  Bordering  the  aisles  might  be 
seen  a  countless  number  of  dusky  chapels,  in  whose  recesses 
were  burning  a  few  lamps  like  stars  lost  in  a  cloudy  sky. 
Chapels  there  were  of  Arab  architecture,  Gothic,  rococo  ; 
some  enclosed  by  magnificent  iron  gratings  ;  some  by  humble 
wooden  rails ;  some  submerged  in  shadow  with  an  ancient 
marble  tomb  before  the  altar  ;  some  brightly  lighted,  with  an 
image  clad  in  tinsel  and  surrounded  by  votive  offerings  of 
silver  and  wax,  together  with  little  bows  of  gay-colored 
ribbon. 

The  fantastic  light  which  illuminated  all  the  church,  whose 
structural  confusion  and  artistic  disorder  were  entirely  in 
keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  convent,  tended  to  enhance  its 


THREE  DATES  8y 

effect  of  mystery.  From  the  lamps  of  silver  and  copper, 
suspended  from  the  vaulting,  from  the  altar-candles,  from  the 
narrow  ogive  windows  and  Moorish  casements  of  the  walls, 
were  shed  rays  of  a  thousand  diverse  hues, — white,  stealing 
in  from  the  street  by  little  skylights  in  the  cupola  ;  red,  spread- 
ing their  glow  from  the  great  wax-candles  before  the  shrines ; 
green,  blue,  and  a  hundred  other  diverse  tints  making  their 
way  through  the  stained  glass  of  the  rose-windows.  All  these 
lustres,  insufficient  to  flood  that  sacred  place  with  adequate 
light,  seemed  at  certain  points  to  blend  in  strife,  while  others 
stood  out,  clear  patches  of  brightness,  over  against  the  veiled, 
dim  depths  of  the  chapels.  Despite  the  solemnity  of  the  rite 
which  was  there  taking  place,  but  few  of  the  faithful  were  in 
attendance.  The  ceremony  had  commenced  some  time  ago 
and  was  now  nearing  its  close.  The  priests  who  officiated  at 
the  High  Altar  were,  at  that  moment,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of 
azure  incense  which  swayed  slowly  through  the  air,  as  they 
descended  the  carpeted  steps  to  take  their  way  to  the  choir 
where  the  nuns  were  heard  intoning  a  psalm. 

I,  too,  moved  toward  that  spot  with  the  intent  of  peering 
through  the  double  gratings  which  isolated  the  choir  from 
the  rest  of  the  church.  It  seemed  borne  in  upon  me  that  I 
must  know  the  face  of  that  woman  of  whom  I  had  seen  only 
— and  for  one  instant — the  hand  ;  and  opening  my  eyes  to 
their  widest  extent  and  dilating  the  pupils  in  the  effort  to 
give  them  greater  power  and  penetration,  I  strained  my  gaze 
on  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  choir.  Fruitless  attempt ; 
across  the  interwoven  irons,  little  or  nothing  could  be  seen. 
Some  white  and  black  phantoms  moving  amidst  a  gloom 
against  which  fought  in  vain  the  inadequate  radiance  of  a 
few  tall  wax  candles  ;  a  long  line  of  lofty,  crocketed  sedilia, 
crowned  with  canopies,  beneath  which  might  be  divined, 
veiled  by  the  dusk,  the  indistinct  figures  of  nuns  clad  in  long 
flowing  robes ;  a  crucifix  illuminated  by  four  candles  and 


SS  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Standing  out  against  the  dark  background  of  the  picture  as 
those  points  of  high  light  which,  on  the  canvases  of  Rem- 
brandt, make  the  shadows  more  palpable ;  this  was  the 
utmost  that  could  be  discerned  from  the  place  where  I  stood. 

The  priests,  covered  with  their  gold-bordered  copes,  pre- 
ceded by  acolytes  who  bore  a  silver  cross  and  two  great 
candles,  and  followed  by  others  who  swung  censers  that  shed 
perfume  all  about,  advancing  through  the  throng  of  the  faith- 
ful who  kissed  their  hands  and  the  hems  of  their  vestments, 
finally  reached  the  choir-screen. 

Up  to  this  moment  I  had  not  been  able  to  distinguish, 
amid  the  other  vague  phantoms,  that  of  the  maiden  who 
was  about  to  consecrate  herself  to  Christ. 

Have  you  never  seen,  in  those  last  instants  of  twilight,  a 
shred  of  mist  rise  from  the  waters  of  a  river,  the  surface  of 
a  fen,  the  waves  of  the  sea,  or  the  deep  heart  of  a  mountain 
tarn, — a  shred  of  mist  that  floats  slowly  in  the  void,  and  now 
looks  like  a  woman  moving,  walking,  trailing  her  gown  be- 
hind her,  now  like  a  white  veil  fastening  the  tresses  of  an 
invisible  sylph,  now  a  ghost  which  rises  in  the  air  hiding  its 
yellow  bones  beneath  a  winding-sheet  against  which  is  still 
seen  outlined  its  angular  shape  ?  Such  was  the  hallucination 
I  experienced  in  beholding  draw  near  the  screen,  as  if  de- 
taching herself  from  the  sombre  depth  of  the  choir,  that 
white,  tall,  most  lightly  moving  form. 

The  face  I  could  not  see.  She  had  placed  herself  exactly 
in  front  of  the  candles  which  lit  up  the  crucifix ;  and  their 
gleam,  making  a  halo  about  her  head,  had  left  the  rest  ob- 
scure, bathing  her  in  a  wavering  shadow. 

Profound  silence  reigned ;  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  her,  and 
the  final  act  of  the  ceremony  began. 

The  abbess,  murmuring  some  unintelligible  words,  words 
which  in  their  turn  the  priests  repeated  with  deep  and  hollow 
voice,  caught  from  the  virgin's  brow  the  en  wreathing  crown 


THREE  DATES  gg 

of  blossoms  and  flung  it  far  away. — Poor  flowers !  They 
were  the  last  she  was  to  wear,  that  woman,  sister  of  the 
flowers  even  as  all  women  are. 

Then  the  abbess  despoiled  her  of  her  veil,  and  her  fair 
tresses  poured  in  a  golden  cascade  down  her  back  and 
shoulders,  which  they  were  suffered  to  cover  but  an  instant, 
for  at  once  there  began  to  be  heard,  in  the  midst  of  that  pro- 
found silence  reigning  among  the  faithful,  a  sharp,  metallic 
chckity-click  which  set  the  nerves  twitching,  and  first  the 
magnificent  waves  of  hair  fell  from  the  forehead  they  had 
shaded,  and  then  those  flowing  locks  that  the  fragrant  air 
must  have  kissed  so  many  times  slipped  over  her  bosom  and 
dropped  upon  the  floor. 

Again  the  abbess  fell  to  murmuring  the  unintelligible  words ; 
the  priest  repeated  them ;  and  once  more  all  was  silence  in 
the  church.  Only  from  time  to  time  were  heard,  afar  off, 
sounds  like  long-drawn,  dreadful  moans.  It  was  the  wind 
complaining  as  it  broke  upon  the  edges  of  the  battlements 
and  towers,  and  shuddering  as  it  passed  the  colored  panes 
of  the  ogive  windows. 

She  was  motionless,  motionless  and  pallid  as  a  maiden  of 
stone  wrenched  from  the  niche  of  a  Gothic  cloister. 

And  they  despoiled  her  of  the  jewels  which  covered  her 
arms  and  throat,  and  finally  they  divested  her  of  her  wedding 
robe,  that  raiment  which  seemed  to  have  been  wrought  that 
a  lover  might  break  its  clasps  with  a  hand  trembling  for  bliss 
and  passion. 

The  mystic  Bridegroom  was  awaiting  the  bride.  Where  ? 
Beyond  the  doors  of  death  ;  lifting,  undoubtedly,  the  stone 
of  the  sepulchre  and  calling  her  to  enter,  even  as  the  timid 
bride  crosses  the  threshold  of  the  sanctuary  of  nuptial  love, 
for  she  fell  to  the  floor  prostrate  as  a  corpse.  As  if  she  were 
clay,  the  nuns  strewed  her  body  with  flowers,  intoning  a  most 
mournful  psalm ;  a  murmur  went  up  from  amid  the  multitude, 


90 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


and  the  priests  with  their  deep  and  hollow  voices  commenced 
the  service  for  the  dead,  accompanied  by  those  instruments 
that  seem  to  weep,  augmenting  the  unfathomable  fear  which 
the  terrible  words  they  pronounce  inspire  of  themselves. 

De  profundis  clamavi  a  te !  chanted  the  nuns  from  the 
depths  of  the  choir  with  plaintive,  lamenting  voices. 

Dies  irae,  dies  ilia  I  responded  the  priests  in  thunderous, 
awful  echo,  and  therewith  the  bells  pealed  slowly,  tolling  for 
the  dead,  and  between  the  peals  the  metal  was  heard  to  vi- 
brate with  a  strange  and  dolorous  drone. 

I  was  touched;  flo,  not  touched — terrified.  I  believed 
that  I  was  in  presence  of  the  supernatural,  that  I  felt  the 
heart  of  my  own  life  torn  from  me,  and  that  vacancy  was 
closing  in  upon  me ;  I  felt  that  I  had  just  lost  something 
precious,  as  a  father,  a  mother,  or  a  cherished  wife,  and  I 
suffered  that  immeasurable  desolation  which  death  leaves 
behind  wheresoever  it  passes,  a  desolation  nameless,  inde- 
scribable, to  be  comprehended  only  by  those  who  have  had  it 
to  bear. 

I  was  still  rooted  to  that  spot  with  wildly  staring  eyes, 
quaking  from  head  to  foot  and  half  beside  myself,  when  the 
new  nun  rose  from  the  ground.  The  abbess  robed  her  in 
the  habit  of  the  order,  the  sisters  took  lighted  candles  in  their 
hands  and,  forming  two  long  lines,  led  her  in  procession  back 
to  the  further  side  of  the  choir. 

There,  amid  the  shadows,  I  saw  the  sudden  glint  of  a  ray 
of  light ;  the  door  of  the  cloister  was  opened.  As  she  stepped 
beneath  the  lintel,  the  nun  turned  for  the  last  time  toward 
the  altar.  The  brightness  of  all  the  lights  suddenly  shone 
upon  her,  and  I  could  see  her  face.  As  I  saw  it,  I  had  to 
choke  back  a  cry. 

I  knew  that  woman  ;  not  that  I  had  ever  seen  her,  but  I 
knew  her  from  the  visions  of  my  dreams  ;  she  was  one  of  those 
beings  whom  the  soul  foretells  or  perchance  remembers  from 


THREE  DATES  91 

another  better  world  which,  in  our  descent  to  this,  some  of  us 
do  not  altogether  forget. 

I  took  two  steps  forward  ;  I  longed  to  call  to  her — to  cry 
out — I  know  not  what — giddiness  assailed  me ;  but  at  that 
instant  the  cloister  door  shut — forever.  The  silver  bells  rang 
blithely,  the  priests  raised  a  Hosanfia^  clouds  of  incense  swept 
through  the  aia-,  the  organ  poured  forth  from  a  hundred  metal 
mouths  a  torrent  of  thunderous  harmony,  and  the  bells  of  the 
tower  began  to  chime,  swinging  with  a  frightful  ecstasy. 

That  mad  and  clamorous  glee  made  my  hair  rise  on  my 
head.  I  looked  about  searching  for  the  parents,  family, 
motherless  children  of  that  woman.     I  found  none. 

"  Perhaps  she  was  alone  in  the  world,"  I  said,  and  could 
not  repress  a  tear. 

"  God  grant  thee  in  the  cloister  the  happiness  which  He 
denied  thee  in  the  world  1  "  simultaneously  exclaimed  an  old 
woman  by  my  side,  and  she  sobbed  and  groaned,  clutching 
the  grating. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  poor  dear !  Indeed  I  knew  her.  I  saw  her  born 
and  I  have  nursed  her  in  my  arms." 

"  And  why  does  she  take  the  veil  ?  " 

"  Because  she  found  herself  alone  in  the  world.  Her  father 
and  mother  died  of  the  cholera  on  one  and  the  same  day,  a 
little  more  than  a  year  ago.  Seeing  her  an  orphan  and  un- 
protected, the  dean  gave  her  a  dowry  so  that  she  might 
enter  the  sisterhood ;  and  now  you  see — what  else  was  there 
to  do  ?  " 

"  And  who  was  she  ?  " 

"  Daughter   of  the  steward  of  the  Count  of  C ,    whom 

I  served  until  his  death." 

"  Where  did  he  live  ?  " 

When  I  heard  the  name  of  the  street,  I  could  not  repress 
an  exclamation  of  surprise. 


92  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

A  line  of  light,  that  line  of  light  which  is  as  swift  as  thought, 
running  brightly  through  the  obscurity  and  confusion  of  the 
mind,  uniting  experiences  far  removed  from  one  another  and 
marvellously  binding  them  together,  connected  my  vague 
memories  and  I  understood — or  believed  that  I  understood 
—all. 

This  date,  which  has  no  name,  I  have  not  written  any- 
where,— nay ;  I  bear  it  written  there  where  only  I  may  read 
it  and  whence  it  shall  never  be  erased. 

Occasionally  in  recalling  these  events,  even  now  in  relat- 
ing them  here,  I  have  asked  myself  : — 

Some  day  in  the  mysterious  hour  of  twilight,  when  the 
breath  of  the  spring  zephyr,  warm  and  laden  with  perfumes, 
penetrates  even  into  the  recesses  of  the  most  retired  dwell- 
ings, bearing  there  an  airy  touch  of  memory,  of  the  world, 
must  not  a  woman,  alone,  lost  in  the  dim  shades  of  a  Gothic 
cloister,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  her  elbow  resting  on  the 
embrasure  of  an  ogive  window,  have  exhaled  a  sigh  as 
the  recollection  of  these  dates  crossed  her  imagination  ? 

Who  knows  ? 

Oh  1  if  she  sighed,  where  might  that  sigh  be  ? 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SKULL 

The  King  of  Castile  was  going  to  the  Moorish  war  and,  in 
order  to  contend  with  the  enemies  of  the  faith,  he  had  sent  a 
martial  summons  to  all  the  flower  of  his  nobility.  The  silent 
streets  of  Toledo  now  resounded  night  and  day  with  the 
stirring  sound  of  kettle-drums  and  trumpets  ;  and  in  the 
Moorish  gateway  of  Visagra,  or  in  that  of  Cambron,  or  in 
the  narrow  entrance  to  the  ancient  bridge  of  St.  Martin,  not 
an  hour  passed  without  one's  hearing  the  hoarse  cry  of  the 
sentinels  proclaiming  the  arrival  of  some  knight  who,  pre- 
ceded by  his  seigniorial  banner  and  followed  by  horsemen 
and  foot-soldiers,  had  come  to  join  the  main  body  of  the 
Castilian  army. 

The  time  which  remained  before  taking  the  road  to  the 
frontier  and  completing  the  order  of  the  royal  hosts  was  spent 
in  public  entertainments,  lavish  feasts  and  brilliant  tourna- 
ments, iintil  at  last,  on  the  evening  before  the  day  appointed 
by  His  Highness  for  the  setting  out  of  the  army,  a  grand 
ball  closed  the  festivities. 

On  the  night  of  the  ball,  the  royal  palace  presented  a 
singular  appearance.  In  the  spacious  courts  might  be  seen, 
promiscuously  mingled  around  huge  bonfires,  a  motley  mul- 
titude of  pages,  soldiers,  crossbowmen  and  hangers-on,  who, 
some  grooming  their  chargers  and  polishing  their  arms  pre- 
paratory to  combat,  others  bewailing  with  outcries  and  blas- 
phemies the  unforeseen  turns  of  Fortune,  personified  for  them 
in  the  cast  of  the  dice,  and  others  chorusing  the  refrain  of  a 
martial  ballad  which  a  minstrel  was  chanting  to  the  accom- 

93 


94  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

paniment  of  a  rude  violin ;  others  still  buying  of  a  palmer 
cockle-shells,  crosses  and  girdles  hallowed  by  the  touch  of 
the  sepulchre  of  Santiago,  or  greeting  with  wild  outbursts  of 
laughter  the  jokes  of  a  clown,  or  practising  on  the  trumpets 
the  battle-airs  of  the  several  seigniories,  or  telling  old  stories 
of  chivalry  and  love  adventures,  or  of  miracles  recently  per- 
formed,— all  contributed  their  quota  to  an  infernal,  undistin- 
guishable  uproar  impossible  to  describe  in  words. 

Above  that  tumultuous  ocean  of  war  songs,  noise  of  ham- 
mers smiting  anvils,  creaking  of  files  that  bit  the  steel,  stamp- 
ing of  horses,  insolent  voices,  irrepressible  laughter,  disorderly 
shouts  and  intemperate  reproaches,  oaths  and  all  manner  of 
strange,  discordant  sounds,  there  floated  at  intervals  like  a 
breath  of  harmony  the  distant  music  of  the  ball. 

This,  which  was  taking  place  in  the  salons  of  the  second 
story  of  the  palace,  offered  in  its  turn  a  picture,  if  not  so 
fantastic  and  capricious,  more  dazzling  and  magnificent. 

Through  galleries  of  far  extent  which  formed  an  intricate 
labyrinth  of  slender  columns  and  ogees  of  fretted  stone  delicate 
as  lace ;  through  great  halls  hung  with  tapestries  on  which 
silk  and  gold  had  pictured  with  a  thousand  diverse  colors 
scenes  of  love,  of  the  chase  and  of  war, — halls  adorned  with 
trophies  of  arms  and  escutcheons  over  which  was  shed  a  sea 
of  sparkling  light  from  innumerable  lamps,  suspended  from 
the  loftiest  vaults,  and  from  candelabras  of  bronze,  silver  and 
gold,  fastened  into  the  massive  blocks  of  the  walls ;  on  all 
sides,  wherever  the  eyes  turned,  might  be  seen  floating  and 
drifting  hither  and  thither  a  cloud  of  beautiful  ladies  in  rich, 
gold-embroidered  garments,  nets  of  pearls  imprisoning  their 
tresses,  necklaces  of  rubies  blazing  upon  their  breasts,  feather 
fans  with  ivory  handles  hanging  from  their  wrists,  veils  of 
white  laces  caressing  their  cheeks  ;  and  joyous  throngs  of 
gallants  with  velvet  sword-belts,  brocaded  jackets  and  silken 
trousers,  morocco  buskins,  full-sleeved  mantelets  \^ith  pointed 


THE    VISAGRA    GATE 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SKULL  95 

hoods,  poniards  with  ornamental  hilts,  and  rapiers  polished, 
thin  and  light. 

But  in  that  bright  and  shining  assemblage  of  youthful 
cavaliers  and  ladies,  whom  their  elders,  seated  in  the  high 
larch  chairs  which  encircled  the  royal  dais,  with  smiles  of 
joy  saw  defiling  by,  there  was  one  woman  who  attracted 
attention  for  her  incomparable  loveHness,  one  who  had  been 
hailed  Queen  of  Beauty  in  all  the  tournaments  and  courts  of 
love  of  the  period,  one  whose  colors  the  most  valiant  knights 
had  adopted  as  their  emblem,  one  whose  charms  were  the 
theme  of  the  songs  of  the  troubadours  most  proficient  in  the 
gay  science,  one  toward  whom  all  eyes  turned  with  wonder, 
for  whom  all  hearts  sighed  in  secret,  around  whom  might  be 
seen  gathering  with  eagerness,  like  humble  vassals  in  the 
train  of  their  mistress,  the  most  illustrious  scions  of  the 
Toledan  nobility  assembled  at  the  ball  that  night. 

Those  presumptive  gallants  who  were  continually  in  the 
retinue  of  the  Dona  Ines  de  Tordesillas,  for  such  was  the 
name  of  this  celebrated  beauty,  were  never  discouraged  in 
their  suit  despite  her  haughty  and  disdainful  character.  One 
was  emboldened  by  a  smile  which  he  thought  he  detected  on 
her  lips  ;  another,  by  a  gracious  look  which  he  deemed  he 
had  surprised  in  her  eyes ;  another,  by  a  flattering  word,  the 
slightest  sign  of  preference,  or  a  vague  promise.  Each  in 
silence  cherished  the  hope  that  he  would  be  her  choice.  Yet 
among  them  all  there  were  two  particularly  prominent  for 
their  assiduity  and  devotion,  two  who  to  all  appearance,  if  not 
the  acknowledged  favorites  of  the  beauty,  might  claim  to  be 
the  farthest  advanced  upon  the  path  to  her  heart.  These 
two  knights,  equals  in  birth,  valor  and  chivalric  accomplish- 
ments, subjects  of  the  same  king  and  aspirants  for  the  same 
lady,  were  Alonso  de  Carrillo.  and  Lope  de  Sandoval. 

Both  were  natives  of  Toledo  ;  together  they  had  first  borne 
arms  ;  and  on  one  and  the  same  day,  their  eyes  meeting  those 


gS  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

of  Dona  Ines,  both  had  conceived  a  hidden  and  ardent  love 
for  her,  a  love  that  for  some  time  grew  in  secrecy  and  silence, 
but  at  length  came  to  an  involuntary  betrayal  of  itself  in  their 
actions  and  conversation. 

At  the  tournaments  in  the  Zocodover,  at  the  floral  games 
of  the  court,  whenever  opportunity  was  presented  for  rivalry 
in  gallantry  or  wit,  both  knights  had  availed  themselves  of 
it  with  eagerness,  desirous  to  win  distinction  under  the  eyes 
of  their  lady;  and  that  night,  impelled  doubtless  by  the  same 
passion,  changing  their  helmets  for  plumes  and  their  mail  for 
brocade  and  silk,  standing  together  by  the  seat  where  she 
rested  a  moment  after  a  turn  through  the  salons,  they  began 
to  engage  in  a  brilliant  contest  of  exquisite  and  ingenious 
phrases  or  keen  and  covert  epigrams. 

The  lesser  stars  of  that  sparkling  constellation,  forming  a 
gilded  semicircle  around  the  two  gallants,  laughed  and  cheered 
on  the  delicate  strife ;  and  the  fair  lady,  the  prize  of  that 
word-tournament,  approved  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  smile 
the  flashes  of  wit,  elegantly  phrased  or  full  of  hidden  mean- 
ing, whether  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  her  adorers  like  a  light 
wave  of  perfume  flattering  to  her  vanity,  or  leapt  forth  like  a 
sharp  arrow  seeking  to  pierce  the  opponent  in  his  most  vul- 
nerable point,  his  self-love. 

Already  with  each  sally  the  courtly  combat  of  wit  and  gal- 
lantry was  growing  fiercer ;  the  phrases  were  still  civil  in 
form,  but  terse  and  dry,  and  in  the  speaking,  accompanied 
though  it  was  by  a  slight  curving  of  the  lips  in  semblance  of 
a  smile,  unconcealable  lightnings  of  the  eyes  betrayed  that 
repressed  anger  which  raged  in  the  breasts  of  the  rivals. 

It  was  a  situation  that  could  not  be  sustained.  The  lady, 
so  perceiving,  had  risen  to  make  another  tour  of  the  salons, 
when  an  incident  occurred  that  broke  down  the  barrier  of 
formal  courtesy  which  had  hitherto  restrained  the  two  enam- 
oured youths.     Perchance  intentionally,  perchance  through 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SKULL  oy 

carelessness,  Dona  Ines  had  let  fall  upon  her  lap  one  of  her 
perfumed  gloves  whose  golden  buttons  she  had  amused  her- 
self in  pulling  off  one  by  one  during  the  conversation.  As 
she  rose,  the  glove  slipped  between  the  wide  silken  plaits  of 
her  dress  and  fell  upon  the  carpet.  Seeing  it  drop,  all  the 
knights  who  formed  her  brilliant  retinue  bent  eagerly  to  re- 
cover it,  disputing  with  one  another  the  honor  of  a  slight 
inclination  of  her  head  as  a  reward  of  their  gallantry. 

Noting  the  precipitation  with  which  all  stooped  to  pick 
up  her  glove,  a  half  smile  of  satisfied  vanity  appeared  on  the 
lips  of  the  haughty  Dona  Ines.  With  a  gesture  of  general 
acknowledgment  to  the  cavaliers  who  had  shown  such  eager- 
ness to  serve  her,  the  lady,  with  a  lofty,  arrogant  mien  and 
scarcely  glancing  in  that  direction,  reached  out  her  hand  for 
the  glove  toward  Lope  and  Alonso,  the  first  to  reach  it.  In 
fact,  both  youths  had  seen  the  glove  fall  close  to  their  feet, 
both  had  stooped  with  equal  haste  to  pick  it  up  and,  on 
rising,  each  held  it  seized  by  one  end.  On  seeing  them 
immovable,  looking  silent  defiance  each  upon  the  other,  and 
both  determined  not  to  give  up  the  glove  which  they  had 
just  raised  from  the  floor,  the  lady  uttered  a  light,  involuntary 
cry,  stifled  by  the  murmur  of  the  astonished  spectators.  The 
whole  presented  a  threatening  scene,  that  there  in  the  royal 
castle  and  in  the  presence  of  the  king  might  be  designated 
as  a  serious  breach  of  courtesy. 

Lope  and  Alonso,  notwithstanding,  remained  motionless, 
mute,  scanning  each  other  from  head  to  foot,  showing  no  sign 
of  the  tempest  in  their  souls  save  by  a  slight  nervous  tremor 
which  shivered  through  their  limbs  as  if  they  had  been  at- 
tacked by  a  sudden  fever. 

The  murmurs  and  exclamations  were  reaching  a  climax. 
The  people  began  to  group  themselves  around  the  principal 
actors  in  the  scene.  Dona  Ines,  either  bewildered  or  taking 
delight  in  prolonging  the  situation,  was  moving  to  and  fro  as 


98 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


if  seeking  refuge  or  escape  from  the  eyes  of  the  throng 
whose  numbers  were  continually  augmented.  Catastrophe 
now  seemed  inevitable.  The  two  young  men  had  already 
exchanged  a  few  words  in  an  undertone,  and  each,  while 
still  with  one  hand  holding  the  glove  in  a  convulsive  grip, 
seemed  instinctively  to  be  seeking  with  the  other  the  golden 
hilt  of  his  poniard,  when  the  crowd  of  spectators  respectfully 
opened  and  there  appeared  the  king. 

His  brow  was  tranquil.  There  was  neither  indignation  in 
his  countenance  nor  anger  in  his  bearing. 

He  surveyed  the  scene  ;  one  glance  was  sufficient  to  put 
him  in  command  of  the  situation.  With  all  the  grace  of  the 
most  accomplished  page,  he  drew  the  glove  from  the  young 
knights'  hands  ^which,  as  though  moved  by  a  spring,  opened 
without  difficulty  at  the  touch  of  their  sovereign,  and  turning 
to  Dona  Ines  de  Tordesillas,  who,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
duenna,  seemed  about  to  faint,  said  with  a  firm  though  con- 
trolled voice,  as  he  presented  the  glove  : 

"  Take  it,  senora^  and  be  careful  not  to  let  it  fall  again, 
lest  when  you  recover  it,  you  find  it  stained  with  blood." 

By  the  time  the  king  had  finished  speaking.  Dona  Ines, 
we  will  not  undertake  to  say  whether  overcome  by  emotion, 
or  in  order  to  retreat  more  gracefully  from  the  situation,  had 
swooned  in  the  arms  of  those  about  her. 

Alonso  and  Lope,  the  former  crushing  in  silence  between 
his  hands  his  velvet  cap  whose  plume  trailed  along  the  carpet, 
and  the  latter  biting  his  lips  till  the  blood  came,  fixed  each 
other  with  a  stubborn,  intense  stare. 

A  stare  at  that  crisis  was  equivalent  to  a  blow,  a  glove 
thrown  in  the  face,  a  challenge  to  mortal  combat. 

II. 

At  midnight,  the  king  and  queen  retired  to  their  chamber. 
The  ball  was  at  an  end,  and  the  inquisitive  folk  outside,  who, 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SKULL  go 

forming  groups  and  circles  in  the  vicinity  of  the  palace,  had 
been  impatiently  awaiting  this  moment,  ran  to  station  them- 
selves beside  the  steep  road,  up  in  the  balconies  along  the 
route,  and  in  the  central  square  of  the  city,  known  as  the 
Zocodover. 

For  an  hour  or  two  there  reigned,  at  these  points  and  in 
the  adjacent  streets,  clamor,  bustle,  activity  indescribable. 
Everywhere  might  be  seen  squires  caracoling  on  their  richly 
caparisoned  steeds,  masters-at-arms  with  showy  vestments  full 
of  shields  and  heraldic  devices,  drummers  dressed  in  gay 
colors,  soldiers  in  shining  armor,  pages  in  velvet  cloaks  and 
plumed  hats,  footmen  who  preceded  luxurious  chairs  and 
litters  covered  with  rich  cloth.  The  great,  blazing  torches 
borne  by  the  footmen  cast  a  rosy  glow  upon  the  multitude, 
who,  with  wondering  faces,  open  mouths  and  frightened  eyes, 
saw  with  amazement  all  the  chief  nobility  of  Castile  passing 
by,  surrounded  on  that  occasion  by  fabulous  splendor  and 
pomp. 

Then,  by  degrees,  the  noise  and  excitement  subsided,  the 
stained  glass  in  the  lofty  ogive  windows  of  the  palace  ceased 
to  shine,  the  last  cavalcade  passed  through  the  close-packed 
throngs,  the  rabble  in  their  turn  began  to  disperse  in  all 
directions,  disappearing  among  the  shadows  of  the  puzzling 
labyrinth  formed  by  those  dark,  narrow,  tortuous  streets,  and 
now  the  deep  silence  of  the  night  was  broken  only  by  the 
far-off  call  of  some  sentinel,  the  footsteps  of  some  lingerer 
whose  curiosity  had  left  him  to  the  last,  the  clang  of  bolts 
and  bars  in  closing  gates,  when  on  the  summit  of  the  stone 
stairway  which  leads  to  the  platform  of  the  palace,  there  ap- 
peared a  knight,  who,  after  looking  on  all  sides  as  if  seeking 
some  one  who  should  have  been  expecting  him,  slowly  de- 
scended to  the  Cuesta  del  Alcazar,  by  which  he  took  his 
way  toward  the  Zocodover. 

On  arriving  at  the  square,  he  halted  a  moment  and  cast  a 


lOO  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

searching  glance  around.  The  night  was  dark,  not  a  star 
glistened  in  the  sky,  nor  in  all  the  square  could  a  single  light 
be  seen  ;  yet  afar  off,  and  in  the  same  direction  in  which  he 
began  to  perceive  a  slight  sound  as  of  approaching  footsteps, 
he  believed  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man,  without  doubt  the  same 
whom  he  had  seemed  to  await  with  such  impatience. 

The  knight  who  had  just  quitted  the  castle  for  the  Zoco- 
dover  was  Alonso  Carrillo,  who,  on  account  of  the  post  of 
honor  which  he  held  near  the  person  of  the  king,  had  been 
kept  on  attendance  in  the  royal  chamber  until  that  hour. 
The  man  coming  to  meet  him  out  of  the  shadows  of  the 
arcades  which  surround  the  square  was  Lope  de  Sandoval. 
When  the  two  knights  were  face  to  face,  they  exchanged  a 
few  sentences  in  suppressed  voices. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  expecting  me,"  said  the  one. 

"  I  hoped  that  you  would  surmise  as  much,"  answered  the 
other. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Wherever  there  can  be  found  four  handsbreadth  of  ground 
to  turn  around  in  and  a  ray  to  give  us  light." 

This  briefest  of  dialogues  ended,  the  two  young  men 
plunged  into  one  of  the  narrow  streets  leading  out  from 
the  Zocodover  and  vanished  in  the  darkness  like  those  phan- 
toms of  the  night,  which,  after  terrifying  for  an  instant  the 
beholder,  dissolve  into  atoms  of  mist  and  are  lost  in  the  depth 
of  the  shadows. 

A  long  time  they  went  on,  traversing  the  streets  of  Toledo, 
seeking  a  suitable  place  to  end  their  quarrel,  but  the  darkness 
of  the  night  was  so  dense  that  the  duel  seemed  impossible. 
Yet  both  wished  to  fight  and  to  fight  before  the  whitening  of 
the  east ;  for  at  dawn  the  royal  hosts  were  to  go  forth,  and 
Alonso  with  them. 

So  they  pressed  on,  threading  at  random  deserted  squares, 
dusky  alleys,  long  and  gloomy  passages,  till  at  last  they  saw 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SKc^LL  id 

shining  in  the  distance  a  light,  a  Hght  small  and  waning,  about 
which  the  mist  formed  a  circle  of  ghostly,  glimmering  lustre. 

They  had  reached  the  Street  of  the  Christ,  and  the  radiance 
discernible  at  one  end  seemed  to  come  from  the  small  lantern 
which  illuminated  then  and  illuminates  still  the  image  that 
gives  the  street  its  name. 

On  seeing  it,  both  let  escape  an  exclamation  of  joy  and, 
quickening  their  steps  toward  it,  were  not  long  in  finding 
themselves  near  the  shrine  in  which  it  burned. 

An  arched  recess  in  the  wall,  in  the  depths  of  which  might 
be  seen  the  image  of  the  Redeemer,  nailed  to  the  cross,  with 
a  skull  at  his  feet,  a  rude  board  covering  for  protection  from 
the  weather,  and  a  small  lantern  hung  by  a  cord,  swaying 
with  the  wind  and  shedding  a  faint  effulgence,  constituted 
the  entire  shrine.  About  it  clung  festoons  of  ivy  which  had 
sprung  up  among  the  dark  and  broken  stones  forming,  as  it 
were,  a  curtain  of  verdure. 

The  cavaliers,  after  reverently  saluting  the  image  of  Christ 
by  removing  their  military  caps  and  murmuring  a  short  prayer, 
glanced  over  the  ground,  threw  off  their  mantles  and,  each 
perceiving  the  other  to  be  ready  for  the  combat  and  both  giv- 
ing the  signal  by  a  slight  motion  of  the  head,  crossed  swords. 
But  scarcely  had  the  blades  touched  when,  before  either  of 
the  combatants  had  been  able  to  take  a  single  step  or  strike 
a  blow,  the  light  suddenly  went  out,  leaving  the  street  plunged 
in  utter  darkness.  As  if  moved  by  the  same  thought,  the  two 
antagonists,  on  finding  themselves  surrounded  by  that  instan- 
taneous gloom,  took  a  step  backward,  lowered  the  points  of 
their  swords  to  the  ground  and  raised  their  eyes  to  the  lantern, 
whose  light,  a  moment  before  extinguished,  began  to  shine 
anew  at  the  very  instant  the  duel  was  suspended. 

"  It  must  have  been  some  passing  gust  that  lowered  the 
flame,"  exclaimed  Carrillo,  placing  himself  again  on  guard, 
and  giving  warning  to  Lope,  who  seemed  preoccupied. 


jljba-. « -  <      .  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Lope  took  a  step  forward  to  recover  the  lost  ground,  ex- 
tended his  arm  and  the  blades  touched  once  more,  but  at  their 
touching  the  light  again  went  out  of  itself,  remaining  thus  until 
the  swords  separated. 

"  In  truth,  but  this  is  strange  I  "  murmured  Lope,  gazing 
at  the  lantern  which  had  begun  spontaneously  to  burn  again. 
The  gleam,  slowly  wavering  with  the  wind,  spread  a  tremu- 
lous, wonderful  radiance  over  the  yellow  skull  placed  at  the 
feet  of  Christ. 

"  Bah  1  "  said  Alonso,  "  it  must  be  because  the  holy  woman 
who  has  charge  of  the  lamp  cheats  the  devotees  and  scants 
the  oil,  so  that  the  light,  almost  out,  brightens  and  then 
darkens  again  in  its  dying  agony." 

Thus  speaking,  the  impetuous  youth  placed  himself  once 
more  in  attitude  of  defence.  His  opponent  did  the  same ; 
but  this  time,  not  only  were  they  enveloped  in  a  thick  and 
impenetrable  gloom,  but  simultaneously  there  fell  upon  their 
ears  the  deep  echo  of  a  mysterious  voice  like  those  long  sighs 
of  the  south-west  wind  which  seems  to  complain  and  articu- 
late words  as  it  wanders  imprisoned  in  the  crooked,  narrow 
and  dim  streets  of  Toledo. 

What  was  uttered  by  that  fearful  and  superhuman  voice 
never  could  be  learned ;  but  on  hearing  it,  both  youths  were 
seized  with  such  profound  terror  that  their  swords  dropped 
from  their  hands,  their  hair  stood  on  end,  and  over  their 
bodies,  shaken  by  an  involuntary  tremor,  and  down  their 
pallid  and  distorted  brows  a  cold  sweat  like  that  of  death 
began  to  flow. 

The  light,  for  the  third  time  quenched,  for  the  third  time 
shone  again  and  dispelled  the  dark. 

"  Ah  1  "  exclaimed  Lope,  beholding  him  who  was  now  his 
opponent,  in  other  days  his  best  friend,  astounded  like  him- 
self, like  himself  pale  and  motionless,  "  God  does  not  mean  to 
permit  this  combat,  for  it  is  a  fratricidal  contest ;  because  a 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SKULL  103 

duel  between  us  is  an  offence  to  heaven  in  whose  sight  we 
have  sworn  a  hundred  times  eternal  friendship."  And  saying 
this  he  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  Alonso,  who  clasped 
him  in  his  own  with  unspeakable  strength  and  fervor. 

III. 

Some  moments  passed  during  which  both  youths  indulged 
in  every  endearment  of  friendship  and  love.  Alonso  spoke 
first  and,  in  accents  touched  by  the  scene  which  we  have 
just  related,  exclaimed,  addressing  his  comrade  : 

"  Lope,  I  know  that  you  love  Dona  Ines  ;  perhaps  not  as 
much  as  I,  but  you  love  her.  Since  a  duel  between  us  is  im- 
possible, 1-et  us  agree  to  place  our  fate  in  her  hands.  Let  us 
go  and  seek  her,  let  her  decide  with  free  choice  which  of 
us  shall  be  the  happy  one,  which  the  wretched.  Her  decision 
shall  be  respected  by  both,  and  he  who  does  not  gain  her  favor 
shall  to-morrow  go  forth  with  the  King  of  Toledo  and  shall 
seek  the  comfort  of  forgetfulness  in  the  excitement  of  war." 

"Since  you  wish  it,  so  let  it  be,"  replied  Lope. 

And  arm  in  arm  the  two  friends  took  their  way  toward  the 
cathedral  beneath  whose  shadow,  in  a  palace  of  which  there 
are  now  no  remains,  dwelt  Dona  Ines  de  Tordesillas. 

It  was  early  dawn,  and  as  some  of  the  kindred  of 
Dona  Ines,  among  them  her  brothers,  were  to  march  the 
coming  day  with  the  royal  army,  it  was  not  impossible  that 
early  in  the  morning  they  could  gain  admittance  to  her 
palace. 

Inspired  by  this  hope  they  arrived,  at  last,  at  the  base  of 
the  Gothic  tower  of  the  church,  but  on  reaching  that  point  a 
peculiar  noise  attracted  their  attention  and,  stopping  in  one 
of  the  angles,  concealed  among  the  shadows  of  the  lofty 
buttresses  that  support  the  walls,  they  saw,  to  their  amaze- 
ment, a  man  emerging  from  a  window  upon  the  balcony  of 
their  lady's  apartments  in  the  palace.     He  lightly  descended 


104 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


to  the  ground  by  the  help  of  a  rope  and,  finally,  a  white 
figure.  Dona  Ines  undoubtedly,  appeared  upon  the  balcony 
and,  leaning  over  the  fretted  parapet,  exchanged  tender 
phrases  of  farewell  with  her  mysterious  lover. 

The  first  motion  of  the  two  youths  was  to  place  their  hands 
on  their  sword-hilts,  but  checking  themselves,  as  though 
struck  by  a  common  thought,  they  turned  to  look  on  one  an- 
other, each  discerning  on  the  other's  face  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment so  ludicrous  that  both  broke  forth  into  loud  laughter, 
laughter  which,  rolling  on  from  echo  to  echo  in  the  silence  of 
the  night,  resounded  through  the  square  even  to  the  palace. 

Hearing  it,  the  white  figure  vanished  from  the  balcony,  a 
noise  of  slamming  doors  was  heard,  and  then  silence  resumed 
her  reign. 

On  the  following  day,  the  queen,  seated  on  a  most  sumpt- 
uous dais,  saw  defile  past  her  the  hosts  who  were  marching 
to  the  war  against  the  Moors.  At  her  side  were  the  principal 
ladies  of  Toledo.  Among  them  was  Dona  Ines  de  Tordesillas 
on  whom  this  day,  as  ever,  all  eyes  were  bent.  But  it  seemed 
to  her  that  they  wore  a  different  expression  from  that  to  which 
she  was  accustomed.  She  would  have  said  that  in  all  the 
curious  looks  cast  upon  her  lurked  a  mocking  smile. 

This  discovery  could  not  but  disquiet  her,  remembering,  as 
she  did,  the  noisy  laughter  which,  the  night  before,  she  had 
thought  she  heard  at  a  distance  in  one  of  the  angles  of  the 
square,  while  she  was  closing  her  balcony  and  bidding  adieu 
to  her  lover  ;  but  when  she  saw  among  the  ranks  of  the  army 
marching  below  the  dais,  sparks  of  fire  glancing  from  their 
brilliant  armor,  and  a  cloud  of  dust  enveloping  them,  the  two 
reunited  banners  of  the  houses  of  Carrillo  and  Sandoval ; 
when  she  saw  the  significant  smile  which  the  two  former 
rivals,  on  saluting  the  queen,  directed  toward  herself,  she 
comprehended  all.  The  blush  of  shame  reddened  her  face 
and  tears  of  chagrin  glistened  in  her  eyes. 


THE  WHITE  DOE 

In  a  small  town  of  Aragon,  about  the  end  of  the  thirteenth 
century  or  a  little  later,  there  lived  retired  in  his  seigniorial 
castle  a  renowned  knight  named  Don  Dionis,  who,  having 
served  his  king  in  the  war  against  the  infidels,  was  then 
taking  his  ease,  giving  himself  up  to  the  merry  exercise  of 
hunting,  after  the  wearisome  hardships  of  war. 

It  chanced  once  to  this  cavalier,  engaged  in  his  favorite 
diversion,  accompanied  by  his  daughter  whose  singular 
beauty,  of  the  blond  type  extraordinary  in  Spain,  had  won 
her  the  name  of  White  Lily,  that  as  the  increasing  heat  of 
the  day  began  to  tell  upon  them,  absorbed  in  pursuing  a 
quarry  in  the  mountainous  part  of  his  estate,  he  took  for  his 
resting-place  during  the  hours  of  the  siesta  a  glen  through 
which  ran  a  rivulet  leaping  from  rock  to  rock  with  a  soft  and 
pleasant  sound. 

It  might  have  been  a  matter  of  some  two  hours  that  Don 
Dionis  had  lingered  in  that  delectable  retreat,  reclining  on 
the  delicate  grass  in  the  shade  of  a  black-poplar  grove,  talk- 
ing affably  with  his  huntsmen  about  the  incidents  of  the  day, 
while  they  related  one  to  another  more  or  less  curious  ad- 
ventures that  had  befallen  them  in  their  hunting  experiences, 
when  along  the  top  of  the  highest  ridge  and  between  alterna- 
ting murmurs  of  the  wind  which  stirred  the  leaves  on  the 
trees,  he  began  to  perceive,  each  time  more  near,  the  sound 
of  a  little  bell  like  that  of  the  leader  of  a  flock. 

In  truth,  it  was  really  that,  for  very  soon  after  the  first 
hearing  of  the  bell,  there  came  leaping  over  the  thick  under- 


io6  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

growth  of  lavender  and  thyme,  descending  to  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  rivulet,  nearly  a  hundred  lambs  white  as  snow, 
and  behind  them  appeared  their  shepherd  with  his  pointed 
hood  drawn  over  his  brows  to  protect  him  from  the  vertical 
rays  of  the  sun  and  with  his  shoulder-bag  swung  from  the  end 
of  a  stick. 

"  Speaking  of  remarkable  adventures,"  exclaimed  on  see- 
ing him  one  of  the  huntsmen  of  Don  Dionfs,  addressing  his 
lord,  "  here  is  Esteban,  the  shepherd-lad,  who  has  been  now 
for  some  time  more  of  a  fool  than  God  made  him,  which  was 
fool  enough.  He  can  give  us  an  amusing  half-hour  by 
relating  the  cause  of  his  continual  frights." 

"  But  what  is  it  that  happens  to  this  poor  devil  ? "  ex- 
claimed Don  Dionis  with  an  air  of  piqued  curiosity. 

"  A  mere  trifle,"  continued  the  huntsrnan  in  a  jesting  tone. 
"  The  case  is  this — that  without  having  been  born  on  Good 
Friday,  or  bearing  a  birthmark  of  the  cross,  or,  so  far  as  one 
can  infer  from  his  regular  Christian  habits,  binding  himself 
to  the  Devil,  he  finds  himself,  not  knowing  why  or  whence, 
endowed  with  the  most  marvellous  faculty  that  any  man  ever 
possessed,  unless  it  be  Solomon,  who,  they  say,  understood 
even  the  language  of  birds." 

"  And  with  what  does  this  remarkable  faculty  have  to 
do?" 

"  It  has  to  do,"  pursued  the  huntsman,  "  as  he  affirms,  and 
he  swears  and  forswears  it  by  all  that  is  most  sacred,  with  a 
conspiracy  among  the  deer  which  course  through  these 
mountains  not  to  leave  him  in  peace,  the  drollest  thing 
about  it  being  that  on  more  than  one  occasion  he  has  sur- 
prised them  in  the  act  of  contriving  the  pranks  they  were 
going  to  play  on  him  and  after  those  tricks  had  been  carried 
through  he  has  overheard  the  noisy  bursts  of  laughter  with 
which  they  applaud  them." 

While  the  huntsman  was  thus  speaking,  Constanza,  as  the 


THE   WHITE  DOE  107 

beautiful  daughter  of  Don  Dioriis  was  named,  had  drawn 
near  the  group  of  sportsmen  and,  as  she  appeared  curious  to 
hear  the  strange  experience  of  Esteban,  one  of  them  ran  on 
to  the  place  where  the  young  shepherd  was  watering  his  flock 
and  brought  him  into  the  presence  of  his  lord,  who,  to  dispel 
the  perturbation  and  evident  embarrassment  of  the  poor 
peasant,  hastened  to  greet  him  by  name,  accompanying  the 
salutation  with  a  benevolent  smile. 

Esteban  was  a  boy  of  nineteen  or  twenty  years,  robust  in 
build,  with  a  small  head  sunken  between  his  shoulders,  little 
blue  eyes,  a  wavering,  stupid  glance  like  that  of  albinos,  a 
flat  nose,  thick,  half  open  Hps,  low  forehead,  complexion  fair 
but  tanned  by  the  sun,  and  hair  which  fell  partly  over  his 
eyes  and  partly  around  his  face,  in  rough  red  locks  like  the 
mane  of  a  sorrel  nag. 

Such,  more  or  less  exactly,  was  Esteban  in  point  of  phys- 
ique. In  respect  to  his  character,  it  could  be  asserted  with- 
out fear  of  denial  on  his  own  part  or  on  that  of  any  one  who 
knew  him,  that  he  was  an  entirely  honest,  simple-hearted 
lad,  though,  like  a  true  peasant,  a  Httle  suspicious  and 
malicious. 

As  soon  as  the  shepherd  had  recovered  from  his  confusion, 
Don  Dionis  again  addressed  him  and,  in  the  most  serious 
tone  in  the  world,  feigning  an  extraordinary  interest  in 
learning  the  details  of  the  event  to  which  his  huntsman  had 
referred,  put  to  him  a  multitude  of  questions  to  which  Esteban 
began  to  reply  evasively,  as  if  desirous  of  escaping  any  dis- 
cussion of  the  subject. 

Constrained,  nevertheless,  by  the  demands  of  his  lord  and 
the  entreaties  of  Constanza,  who  seemed  most  curious  and 
eager  that  the  shepherd  should  relate  his  astounding  adven- 
tures, he  decided  to  talk  freely,  but  not  without  casting  a 
distrustful  glance  about  him  as  though  fearing  to  be  over- 
heard by  others  than  those  present,  and  scratching  his  head 


log  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

three  or  four  times  in  the  effort  to  connect  his  recollections 
or  find  the  thread  of  his  narrative,  before  at  last  he  thus 
began : 

"  The  fact  is,  my  lord,  that  as  a  priest  of  Tarazona  to 
whom,  not  long  ago,  I  went  for  help  in.  my  troubles,  told  me, 
wits  don't  serve  against  the  Devil,  but  mum!  finger  on  lip, 
many  good  prayers  to  Saint  Bartholomew — who,  none  better, 
knows  his  knaveries — and  let  him  have  his  sport ;  for  God, 
who  is  just,  and  sits  up  thereon  high,  will  see  that  all  comes 
right  in  the  end. 

"  Resolved  on  this  course  I  had  decided  never  again  to  say 
a  word  to  any  one  about  it, — no,  not  for  anything  ;  but  I  will 
do  it  to-day  to  satisfy  your  curiosity,  and  in  good  sooth,  if, 
after  all,  the  Devil  calls  me  to  account  and  goes  to  troubling 
me  in  punishment  for  my  indiscretion,  I  carry  the  Holy 
Gospels  sewed  inside  my  sheepskin  coat,  and  with  their  help, 
I  think  that,  as  at  other  times,  I  may  make  telling  use  of  a 
cudgel." 

"  But,  come !  "  exclaimed  Don  Dionis,  out  of  patience  with 
the  digressions  of  the  shepherd,  which  it  seemed  would  never 
end,  "  let  the  whys  and  wherefores  go,  and  come  directly  to 
the  subject." 

"  I  am  coming  to  it,"  calmly  replied  Esteban,  and  after 
calling  together,  by  dint  of  a  shout  and  a  whistle,  the  lambs 
of  which  he  had  not  lost  sight  and  which  were  now  beginning 
to  scatter  over  the  mountain-side,  he  scratched  his  head  again 
and  proceeded  thus : 

"  On  the  one  hand,  your  own  continual  hunting  trips,  and 
on  the  other,  the  persistency  of  those  trespassers  who,  what 
with  snare  and  what  with  crossbow,  hardly  leave  a  deer  alive 
in  twenty  days'  journey  round  about,  had,  a  little  time  ago, 
so  thinned  out  the  game  in  these  mountains  that  you  could 
not  find  a  stag  in  them,  not  though  you  would  give  one  of 
your  eyes. 


THE  WHITE  DOE  IOq 

"  I  was  speaking  of  this  in  the  town,  seated  in  the  porch 
of  the  church,  where  after  mass  on  Sunday  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  joining  some  laborers  who  till  the  soil  in  Veraton,  when 
some  of  them  said  to  me  : 

"  •  Well,  man,  I  don't  know  why  it  is  you  fail  to  run  across 
them,  since,  as  for  us,  we  can  give  you  our  word  that  we  don't 
once  go  down  to  the  ploughed  land  without  coming  upon  their 
tracks,  and  it  is  only  three  or  four  days  since,  without  going 
further  back,  a  herd,  which,  to  judge  by  their  hoof-prints, 
must  have  numbered  more  than  twenty,  cut  down  before  its 
time  a  crop  of  wheat  belonging  to  the  care-taker  of  the  Virgen 
del  Romeral.' 

"  *  And  in  what  direction  did  the  track  lead  ? '  I  asked  the 
laborers,  with  a  mind  to  see  if  I  could  fall  in  with  the  herd. 

"  *  Toward  the  Lavender  Glen,'  they  replied. 

"  This  information  did  not  enter  one  ear  to  go  out  at  the 
other  ;  that  very  night  I  posted  myself  among  the  poplars. 
During  all  its  hours  I  kept  hearing  here  and  there,  far  off  as 
well  as  near  by,  the  trumpeting  of  the  deer  as  they  called  one 
to  another,  and  from  time  to  time  I  felt  the  boughs  stirring 
behind  me  ;  but  however  sharply  I  looked,  the  truth  is,  I 
could  distinguish  nothing. 

"  Nevertheless,  at  break  of  day,  when  I  took  the  lambs  to 
water,  at  the  bank  of  the  stream,  about  two  throws  of  the 
sling  from  the  place  where  we  now  are,  and  in  so  dense  a 
shade  of  poplars  that  not  even  at  mid-day  is  it  pierced  by 
a  ray  of  sunshine,  I  found  fresh  deer-tracks,  broken  branches, 
the  stream  a  little  roiled  and,  what  is  more  peculiar,  among 
the  deer-tracks  the  short  prints  of  tiny  feet  no  larger  than 
the  half  of  the  palm  of  my  hand,  without  any  exaggeration." 

On  saying  this,  the  boy,  instinctively  seeming  to  seek  a 
point  of  comparison,  directed  his  glance  to  the  foot  of  Con- 
stanza,  which  peeped  from  beneath  her  petticoat  shod  in  a 
dainty   sandal  of  yellow  morocco,  but  as  the  eyes  of  Don 


no  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Dionfs  and  of  some  of  the  huntsmen  who  were  about  him 
followed  Esteban's,  the  beautiful  girl  hastened  to  conceal  it, 
exclaiming  in  the  most  natural  voice  in  the  world  : 

"  Oh,  no !  unluckily  mine  are  not  so  tiny,  for  feet  of  this 
size  are  found  only  among  the  fairies  of  whom  the  trouba- 
dours sing." 

"  But  I  did  not  give  up  with  this,"  continued  the  shepherd, 
when  Constanza  had  finished.  "  Another  time,  having  con- 
cealed myself  in  another  hiding-place  by  which,  undoubtedly, 
the  deer  would  have  to  pass  in  going  to  the  glen,  at  just  about 
midnight  sleep  overcame  me  for  a  little,  although  not  so  much 
but  that  I  opened  my  eyes  at  the  very  moment  when  I  per- 
ceived the  branches  were  stirring  around  me.  I  opened  my 
eyes,  as  I  have  said;  I  rose  with  the  utmost  caution  .and, 
listening  intently  to  the  confused  murmur,  which  every 
moment  sounded  nearer,  I  heard  in  the  gusts  of  wind  some- 
thing like  cries  and  strange  songs,  bursts  of  laughter,  and 
three  or  four  distinct  voices  which  talked  together  with  a 
chatter  and  gay  confusion  like  that  of  the  young  girls  at  the 
village  when,  laughing  and  jesting  on  the  way,  they  return  in 
groups  from  the  fountain  with  their  water-jars  on  their  heads. 

"  As  I  gathered  from  the  nearness  of  the  voices  and  close- 
by  crackle  of  twigs  which  broke  noisily  in  giving  way  to  that 
throng  of  merry  maids,  they  were  just  about  to  come  out  of 
the  thicket  on  to  a  little  platform  formed  by  a  jut  of  the 
mountain  there  where  I  was  hid  when,  right  at  my  back,  as 
near  or  jiearer  than  I  am  to  you,  I  heard  a  new  voice,  fresh, 
fine  and  vibrant,  which  said — believe  it,  senores^  it  is  as  true 
as  that  I  have  to  die — it  said,  clearly  and  distinctly,  these 

very  words : 

"'  Hither,  hither,  comrades  dear! 
That  dolt  of  an  Esteban  is  here  I  *  " 

On  reaching  this  point  in  the  shepherd's  story,  the  by- 
standers could  no  longer  repress  the  merriment  which  for 


THE  WHITE  DOE  j  j  j 

many  minutes  had  been  dancing  in  their  eyes  and,  giving 
free  rein  to  their  mirth,  they  broke  into  clamorous  laughter. 
^Among  the  first  to  begin  to  laugh,  and  the  last  to  leave  off, 
'were  Don  Dioni's,  who,  notwithstanding  his  air  of  dignity, 
Icould  not  but  take  part  in  the  general  hilarity,  and  his 
[daughter  Constanza,  who,  every  time  she  looked  at  Esteban, 
all  in  suspense  and  embarrassment  as  he  was,  fell  to  laugh- 
ing again  like  mad  till  the  tears  sprang  from  her  eyes. 

The  shepherd-lad,  for  his  part,  although  without  heeding 
the  effect  his  story  had  produced,  seemed  disturbed  and 
irestless,  and  while  the  great  folk  laughed  to  their  hearts' 
[content  at  his  simple  tale,  he  turned  his  face  from  one  side 
the  other  with  visible  signs  of  fear  and  as  if  trying  to 
Idescry  something  beyond  the  intertwined'  trunks  of  the 
[trees. 

What  is  it,  Esteban,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  one  of 
|the  huntsmen,  noting  the  growing  disquietude  of  the  poor 
Iboy,  who  now  was  fixing  his  fright-ened  eyes  on  the  laughing 
daughter  of  Don  Dionis,  and  again  gazing  all  around  him 
with  an  expression  of  astonishment  and  dull  dismay : 

"  A  very  strange  thing  is  happening  to  me,"  exclaimed 
Esteban.  "  When,  after  hearing  the  words  which  I  have 
just  repeated,  I  quickly  sat  upright  to  surprise  the  person 
who  had  spoken  them,  a  doe  white  as  snow  leaped  from  the 
very  copse  in  which  I  was  hidden  and,  taking  a  few  prodi- 
gious bounds  over  the  tops  of  the  evergreen  oaks  and  mastic 
trees,  sped  away,  followed  by  a  herd  of  deer  of  the  natural 
color ;  and  these,  like  the  white  one  who  was  guiding  them, 
did  not  utter  the  cries  of  deer  in  flight,  but  laughed  with 
great  peals  of  laughter,  whose  echo,  I  could  swear,  is  sound- 
ing in  my  ears  at  this  moment." 

"  Bah,  bah,  Esteban  !  "  exclaimed  Don  Dionis,  with  a  jest- 
ing air,  "  follow  the  counsels  of  the  priest  of  Tarazona ;  do 
not  talk  of  your  adventures  with  the  joke-loving  deer,  lest 


1 1 2  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN. 

the  Devil  bring  it  to  pass  that  in  the  end  you  lose  the  Httle 
sense  you  have,  and  since  now  you  are  provided  with  the 
gospels  and  know  the  prayer  of  Saint  Bartholomew,  return 
to  your  lambs  which  are  beginning  to  scatter  through  the 
glen.  If  the  evil  spirits  tease  you  again,  you  know  the 
remedy — Pater  Noster  and  a  big  stick." 

The  shepherd,  after  putting  away  in  his  pouch  a  half  loaf 
of  white  bread  and  a  piece  of  boar's  meat,  and  in  his  stomach 
a  mighty  draught  of  wine,  which,  by  order  of  his  lord,  one 
of  the  grooms  gave  him,  took  leave  of  Don  Dionfs  and  his 
daughter  and  had  scarcely  gone  four  steps  when  he  began 
whirling  his  sling,  casting  stones  from  it  to  gather  the  lambs 
together. 

As,  by  this  time,  Don  Dionfs  observed  that,  what  with  one 
diversion  and  another,  the  hours  of  heat  were  now  passed 
and  the  light  afternoon  breeze  was  beginning  to  stir  the 
leaves  of  the  poplars  and  to  freshen  the  fields,  he  gave  orders 
to  his  retinue  to  make  ready  the  horses  which  were  grazing 
loose  in  the  grove  hard  by ;  and  when  ever)rthing  was  prepared, 
he  signalled  to  some  to  slip  the  leashes,  and  to  others  to  blow 
the  horns  and,  sallying  forth  in  a  troop  from  the  poplar-grove, 
took  up  the  interrupted  chase.  " 

II. 

Among  the  huntsmen  of  Don  Dionfs  was  one  named 
Garces,  the  son  of  an  old  servitor  of  the  house  and  therefore 
held  in  high  regard  by  the  family. 

Garcds  was  of  about  the  age  of  Constanza,  and  from  early 
boyhood  had  been  accustomed  to  anticipate  the  least  of  her 
wishes  and  to  divine  and  gratify  the  lightest  of  her  whims. 

He  amused  himself  in  his  moments  of  leisure  in  sharpen- 
ing with  his  own  hand  the  pointed  arrows  of  her  ivory  cross- 
bow ;  he  broke  in  the  colts  for  her  mounts ;  he  trained  her 


THE   WHITE  DOE  n^ 

favorite  hounds  in  the  arts  of  the  chase  and  tamed  her  falcons 
for  which  he  bought  at  the  fairs  of  Castile  red  hoods  em- 
)roidered  with  gold. 

But  as  for  the  other  huntsmen,  the  pages  and  the  common 
folk  in  the  service  of  Don  Dionis,  the  delicate  attentions  of 
rarces  and  the  marks  of  esteem  with  which  his  superiors 
distinguished  him  had  caused  them  to  hold  him  in  a  sort  of 
general  dislike,  even  to  the  point  of  saying,  in  their  envy, 
that  all  his  assiduous  efforts  to  anticipate  the  caprices  of  his 
mistress  revealed  the  character  of  a  flatterer  and  a  sycophant. 
Yet  there  were  not  wanting  those  who,  more  keen-sighted  or 
malicious  than  the  rest,  believed  that  they  detected  in  the 
young  retainer's  devotion  signs  of  an  ill-dissembled  passion. 

If  this  were  really  so,  the  secret  love  of  Garces  had  more 
than  abundant  excuse  in  the  incomparable  charms  of  Con- 
stanza.  He  must  needs  have  had  a  breast  of  stone,  and  a 
heart  of  ice,  who  could  remain  unmoved  day  after  day  at  the 
side  of  that  woman,  peerless  in  her  beauty  and  her  bewitching 
graces. 

The  Lily  of  the  Moncayo  they  called  her  for  twenty  leagues 
around,  and  well  she  merited  this  soubriquet,  for  she  was  so 
exquisite,  so  white  and  so  delicately  flushed  that  it  would 
seem  that  God  had  made  her,  like  the  lilies,  of  snow  and 
gold. 

Nevertheless,  among  the  neighboring  gentry  it  was  whis- 
pered that  the  beautiful  Lady  of  Veraton  was  not  so  pure  of 
blood  as  she  was  fair,  and  that  despite  her  bright  tresses  and 
her  alabaster  complexion,  she  had  had  a  gipsy  mother.  How 
much  truth  there  was  in  these  rumors  no  one  could  say,  for, 
in  fact,  Don  Dionis  had  in  his  youth  led  an  adventurous  life, 
and  after  fighting  long  under  the  banner  of  the  King  of 
Aragon,  from  whom  he  received  among  other  rewards  the 
fief  of  the  Moncayo,  had  gone  to  Palestine,  where  he  wandered 
for  some  years,  finally  returning  to  estabHsh  himself  in  his 


114 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


castle  of  Veraton  with  a  little  daughter  born,  doubtless,  on 
foreign  soil.  The  only  person  who  could  have  told  anything 
about  the  mysterious  origin  of  Constanza,  having  attended 
Don  Dionfs  in  his  travels  abroad,  was  the  father  of  Garce's, 
and  he  had  died  some  time  since  without  saying  a  single 
word  on  the  subject,  not  even  to  his  own  son  who,  at  various 
times  and  with  manifestations  of  great  interest,  had  questioned 
him. 

The  temperament  of  Constanza,  with  its  swift  alternations 
from  reserve  and  melancholy  to  mirth  and  glee  ;  the  singular 
vividness  of  her  imagination  ;  her  wild  moods  ;  her  extraor- 
dinary ways ;  even  the  peculiarity  of  having  eyes  and  eye- 
brows black  as  night  while  her  complexion  was  white  and 
rosy  and  her  hair  as  bright  as  gold,  had  contributed  to  fur- 
nish food  for  the  gossip  of  the  countryside ;  and  even  Garc^s 
himself,  who  knew  her  so  intimately,  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  his  liege  lady  was  something  apart  and  did  not 
resemble  the  rest  of  womankind. 

Present,  as  the  other  huntsmen  were,  at  the  narration  of 
Esteban,  Garces  was  perhaps  the  only  one  who  listened  with 
genuine  curiosity  to  the  details  of  the  shepherd's  incredible 
adventure  ;  and  though  he  could  not  help  smiling  when  the 
lad  repeated  the  words  of  the  white  doe,  no  sooner  had  he 
left  the  grove  in  which  they  had  taken  their  siesta,  .than 
he  began  to  revolve  in  his  mind  the  most  ridiculous  fancies. 

"  Without  doubt  this  tale  of  the  talking  of  the  deer  is  a 
sheer  delusion  of  Esteban's,  who  is  a  perfect  simpleton,"  the 
young  huntsman  said  to  himself  as,  mounted  on  a  powerful 
sorrel,  he  followed  step  by  step  the  palfrey  of  Constanza, 
who  seemed  also  somewhat  preoccupied  and  was  so  silent 
and  so  withdrawn  from  the  group  of  hunters  as  scarcely  to 
take  any  part  in  the  sport.  "  Yet  who  can  say  that  in  the 
story  which  this  poor  fool  tells  there  may  not  be  a  grain  of 
truth  ?  "   thought  on  the  young  retainer.     "  We  have  seen 


THE   WHITE  DOE  n^ 

stranger  things  in  the  world,  and  a  white  doe  may  indeed 
exist,  since  if  we  can  credit  the  folk-songs,  Saint  Hubert,  the 
patron  of  huntsmen,  had  one.  Oh,  if  I  could  take  a  white- 
doe  alive  for  an  offering  to  my  lady !  " 

Thus  thinking  and  dreaming,  Garces  passed  the  afternoon  ; 
and  when  the  sun  began  to  descend  behind  the  neighboring 
hills,  and  Don  Dionis  gave  the  order  to  his  retinue  for  the 
return  to  the  castle,  he  slipped  away  from  the  company  un- 
noticed and  went  in  search  of  the  shepherd  through  the 
densest  and  most  entangled  coverts  of  the  mountain. 

Night  had  almost  completely  closed  in  when  Don  Dionis 
arrived  at  the  gates  of  his  castle.  Immediately  there  was 
placed  before  him  a  frugal  collation  and  he  sat  down  with 
his  daughter  at  the  table. 

"  And  Garces,  where  is  he  ? "  asked  Constanza,  noticing 
that  her  huntsman  was  not  there  to  serve  her  as  usual.  . 

"  We  do  not  know,"  the  other  attendants  hastened  to  reply. 
"  He  disappeared  from  among  us  near  the  glen  and  we  have 
not  seen  him  since." 

At  that  instant  Garces  arrived,  all  breathless,  his  forehead 
still  covered  with  perspiration,  but  with  the  most  happy  and 
satisfied  expression  imaginable. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  lady,"  he  exclaimed,  addressing  Con- 
stanza,  "  pardon  me  if  I  have  been  wanting  a  moment  in  my 
duty,  but  there  whence  I  came  at  my  horse's  best  speed, 
there,  as  here,  I  was  busied  only  in  your  service." 

*'  In  my  service  ? "  repeated  Constanza.  "  I  do  not  un- 
derstand what  you  mean." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  in  your  service,"  repeated  the  youth,  "  for 
I  have  ascertained  that  the  white  doe  really  does  exist.  Be- 
sides Esteban,  it  is  vouched  for  by  various  other  shepherds, 
who  swear  they  have  seen  it  more  than  once ;  and  with  their 
aid  I  hope  in  God  and  in  my  patron  Saint  Hubert  to  bring 
it,  living  or  dead,  within  three  days  to  you  at  the  castle." 


1 1 6  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"  Bah  I  Bah  1  "  exclaimed  Constanza  with  a  jesting  air, 
while  the  derisive  laughter,  more  or  less  dissimulated,  of  the 
bystanders  chorused  her  words.  "  Have  done  with  midnight 
hunts  and  with  white  does.  Bear  in  mind  that  the  Devil 
loves  to  tempt  the  simple  ;  and  if  you  persist  in  following  at 
his  heels,  he  will  make  you  a  laughing-stock  like  poor 
Esteban." 

"  My  lady,"  interrupted  Carets  with  a  broken  voice,  con- 
cealing as  far  as  possible  the  anger  which  the  merry  scoffs 
of  his  companions  stirred  in  him,  "  I  have  never  yet  had  to 
do  with  the  Devil  and  consequently  I  am  not  acquainted 
with  his  practices  ;  but,  for  myself,  I  swear  to  you  that,  do 
all  he  can,  he  will  not  make  me  an  object  of  laughter,  for 
that  is  a  privilege  I  know  how  to  tolerate  in  yourself  alone." 

Constanza  saw  the  effect  which  her  mocking  had  produced 
on  the  enamoured  youth,  but  desiring  to  test  his  patience  to 
the  uttermost,  she  continued  in  the  same  tone  : 

*'  And  what  if,  on  aiming  at  the  doe,  she  salutes  you  with 
another  laugh  like  that  which  Esteban  heard,  or  flings  it  into 
your  very  face,  and  you,  hearing  those  supernatural  peals  of 
merriment,  let  fall  your  bow  from  your  hands,  and  before  you 
recover  from  the  fright,  the  white  doe  has  vanished  swifter 
than  lightning — what  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  for  that  I  "  exclaimed  Garces,  "  be  sure  that  if  I 
can  speed  a  shaft  before  she  is  out  of  bowshot,  although  she 
play  me  more  tricks  than  a  juggler ;  although  she  speak  to 
me,  not  in  the  language  of  the  country,  but  in  Latin  like  the 
Abbot  of  Munilla,  she  will  not  get  off  without  an  arrow-head 
in  her  body." 

At  this  stage  in  the  conversation,  Don  Dionfs  joined  in 
with  a  forced  gravity  through  which  might  be  detected  the 
entire  irony  of  his  words,  and  began  to  give  the  now  perse- 
cuted boy  the  most  original  counsels  in  the  world,  in  case  he 


THE   WHITE  DOE  117 

should  suddenly  meet  with  the  demon  changed  into  a  white 
doe. 

At  each  new  suggestion  of  her  father,  Constanza  fixed  her 
eyes  on  the  distressed  Garces,  and  broke  into  extravagant 
laughter,  while  his  fellow-servitors  encouraged  the  jesting 
with  glances  of  intelligence  and  ill-disguised  delight. 

Only  with  the  close  of  the  supper  ceased  this  scene,  in 
which  the  credulity  of  the  young  hunter  was,  so  to  speak, 
the  theme  on  which  the  general  mirth  played  variations, 
so  that  when  the  cloth  was  removed  and  Don  Dionis  and 
Constanza  had  withdrawn  to  their  apartments,  and  all  the 
inmates  of  the  castle  had  gone  to  rest,  Garces  remained  for 
a  long  time  irresolute,  debating  whether,  notwithstanding  the 
jeers  of  his  liege  lord  and  lady,  he  would  stand  firm  to  his 
purpose,  or  absolutely  abandon  the  enterprise. 

"  What  the  devil,"  he  exclaimed,  rousing  himself  from  the 
state  of  uncertainty  into  which  he  had  fallen.  "  Greater  harm 
than  that  which  has  overtaken  me  cannot  come  to  pass  and 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  what  Esteban  has  told  us  is  true,  oh, 
then,  how  sweet  will  be  the  taste  of  my  triumph  !  " 

Thus  speaking,  he  fitted  a  shaft  to  his  crossbow — not 
without  having  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  the  point  of 
the  arrow — and  swinging  it  over  his  shoulder,  he  directed 
his  steps  toward  the  postern  gate  of  the  castle  to  take  the 
mountain  path. 

When  Garces  reached  the  glen  and  the  point  where,  ac- 
cording to  the  instructions  of  Esteban,  he  was  to  lie  in  wait 
for  the  appearance  of  the  deer,  the  moon  was  slowly  rising 
behind  the  neighboring  mountains. 

Like  a  good  hunter,  well-practised  in  his  craft,  he  spent  a 

considerable  time,  before  selecting  a  suitable  place  for  an 

ambush,  in  going  to  and  fro,  scanning  the  byways  and  paths 

thereabouts,  the  grouping  of  the  trees,  the   irregularities  of 

"  the  ground,  the  curves  of  the  river  and  the  depth  of  its  waters. 


1 1 8  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

At  last,  after  completing  this  minute  examination  of  the 
locality,  he  hid  himself  upon  a  sloping  bank  near  some  black 
poplars  whose  high  and  interlacing  tops  cast  a  dark  shadow, 
and  at  whose  feet  grew  a  clump  of  mastic  shrubs  high 
enough  to  conceal  a  man  lying  prone  on  the  ground. 

The  river,  which,  from  the  mossy  rocks  where  it  rose,  came 
following  the  windings  of  the  rugged  fief  of  the  Moncayo  to 
enter  the  glen  by  a  cascade,  thence  went  gliding  on,  bathing 
the  roots  of  the  willows  that  shaded  its  bank,  or  playing 
with  a  murmurous  ripple  among  the  stones  rolled  down  from 
the  mountain,  until  it  fell  into  a  pool  very  near  the  point 
which  served  the  hunter  for  a  hiding-place. 

The  poplars,  whose  silvered  leaves  the  wind  stirred  with 
the  sweetest  rustle,  the  willows  which,  leaning  over  the  limpid 
current,  bedewed  in  it  the  tips  of  their  pale  branches,  and  the 
crowded  groups  of  evergreen  oaks  about  whose  trunks  honey- 
suckles and  blue  morning-glories  clambered  and  twined, 
formed  a  thick  wall  of  foliage  around  this  quiet  river-pool. 

The  wind,  stirring  the  leafy  curtains  of  living  green  which 
spread  round  about  their  floating  shadow,  let  penetrate  at 
intervals  a  stealthy  ray  of  light  that  gleamed  like  a  flash 
of  silver  over  the  surface  of  the  motionless,  deep  waters. 

Hidden  among  the  bushes,  his  ear  attent  to  the  slightest 
sound,  and  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  spot  where,  according  to 
his  calculations,  the  deer  should  come.  Carets  waited  a  long 
time  in  vain. 

Everything  about  him  remained  buried  in  a  deep  calm. 

Little  by  little,  and  it  might  well  be  that  the  lateness  of  the 
hour — for  it  was  past  midnight — began  to  weigh  upon  his 
lids — might  well  be  that  far-off  murmurs  of  the  water,  the 
penetrating  scent  of  the  wild  flowers  and  the  caresses  of  the 
wind  affected  his  senses  with  the  soft  drowsiness  in  which 
all  nature  seemed  to  be  steeped — ^the  enamoured  boy,  who 
until  now  had   been  occupied  in  revolving  in  his  mind  the 


THE  WHITE  DOE  n^ 

most  alluring  fancies,  began  to  find  that  his  ideas  took  shape 
more  slowly  and  his  thoughts  drifted  into  vague  and  inde- 
cisive forms. 

After  lingering  a  little  in  this  dim  border-land  between 
waking  and  sleeping,  at  last  he  closed  his  eyes,  let  his 
crossbow  slip  from  his  hands,  and  sank  into  a  profound 
slumber. 


It  must  have  been  for  two  or  three  hours  now  that  the 
young  hunter  had  been  snoring  at  his  ease,  enjoying  to  the 
full  one  of  the  serenest  dreams  of  his  life,  when  suddenly  he 
opened  his  eyes,  with  a  stare,  and  half  raised  himself  to  a 
sitting  posture,  full  yet  of  that  stupor  with  which  one  wakes 
suddenly  from  profound  sleep. 

In  the  breathings  of  the  wind  and  blended  with  the  light 
noises  of  the  night,  he  thought  he  detected  a  strange  hum  of 
delicate  voices,  sweet  and  mysterious,  which  were  talking 
with  one  another,  laughing  or  singing,  each  in  its  own  in- 
dividual strain,  making  a  twitter  as  clamorous  and  confused 
as  that  of  the  birds  awakening  at  the  first  ray  of  the  sun  amid 
the  leaves  of  a  poplar  grove. 

This  extraordinary  sound  was  heard  for  an  instant  only, 
and  then  all  was  still  again. 

"  Without  doubt,  I  was  dreaming  of  the  absurdities  of  which 
the  shepherd  told  us,"  exclaimed  Garces,  rubbing  his  eyes  in 
all  tranquillity,  and  firmly  persuaded  that  what  he  had  thought 
he  heard  was  no  more  than  that  vague  impression  of  slumber 
which,  on  awaking,  lingers  in  the  imagination,  as  the  closing 
cadence  of  a  melody  dwells  in  the  ear  after  the  last  trem- 
bling note  has  ceased.  And  overcome  by  the  unconquerable 
languor  weighing  down  his  limbs,  he  was  about  to  lay  his 
head  again  upon  the  turf,  when  he  heard  anew  the  distant 
echo  of  those  mystic  voices,  which  to  the  accompaniment  of 


1 20  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

the   soft  stir  of  the  air,   the    water  and    the   leaves   were 
singing  thus : 

CHORUS. 

"  The  archer  who  watched  on  the  top  of  the  tower  has  laid  his  heavy 

head  down  on  the  wall. 
The  stealthy  hunter  who  was  expecting  to  surprise  the  deer  has  been 

surprised  by  sleep. 
The  shepherd  who  awaited  the  day,  consulting  the  stars,  sleeps  now, 

and  will  sleep  till  dawn. 
Queen  of  the  water-sprites,  follow  our  steps. 
Come  to  swing  in  the  branches  of  the  willows  over  the  surface  of  the 

water. 
••  Come  to  intoxicate  thyself  with  the  perfume  of  the  violets  which  open 

at  dusk. 
"Come  to  enjoy  the  night,  which  is  the  day  of  the  spirits." 

While  the  sweet  notes  of  that  delicious  music  floated  on 
the  air,  Garces  remained  motionless.  After  it  had  melted 
away,  with  much  caution  he  slightly  parted  the  branches  and, 
not  without  experiencing  a  certain  shock,  saw  come  into 
sight  the  deer,  which,  moving  in  a  confused  group  and  some- 
times bounding  over  the  bushes  with  incredible  lightness, 
stopping  as  though  listening  for  others,  frolicking  together, 
now  hiding  in  the  thicket,  now  sallying  out  again  into  the 
path,  were  descending  the  mountain  in  the  ^direction  of  the 
river-pool. 

In  advance  of  her  companions,  more  agile,  more  graceful, 
more  sportive,  more  joyous  than  all  of  them,  leaping,  running, 
pausing  and  running  again  so  lightly  that  she  seemed  not 
to  touch  the  ground  with  her  feet,  went  the  white  doe,  whose 
wonderful  color  stood  out  like  a  fantastic  light  against  the 
dark  background  of  the  trees. 

Although  the  young  man  was  inclined  to  see  in  his  sur- 
roundings something  of  the  supernatural  and  miraculous,  the 
fact  of  the  case  was  that,  apart  from  the  momentary  hallu- 
cination which  disturbed  his  senses  for  an  instant,  suggesting 


THE  WHITE  DOE  121 

to  him  music,  murmurs  and  words,  there  was  nothing  either 
in  the  form  of  the  deer,  nor  in  their  movements,  nor  in  their 
short  cries  with  which  they  seemed  to  call  one  to  another, 
that  ought  not  to  be  entirely  familiar  to  a  huntsman  ex- 
perienced in  this  sort  of  night  expeditions. 

In  proportion  as  he  put  away  the  first  impression,  Garces 
began  to  take  the  practical  view  of  the  situation  and,  smiling 
inwardly  at  his  credulity  and  fright,  from  that  instant  was 
intent  only  on  determining,  in  view  of  the  route  they  were 
following,  the  point  where  the  deer  would  take  the  water. 

Having  made  his  calculation,  he  gripped  his  crossbow  be- 
tween his  teeth  and,  twisting  along  like  a  snake  behind  the 
mastic  shrubs,  located  himself  about  forty  paces  from  his 
former  situation.  Once  ensconced  in  his  new  ambush,  he 
waited  long  enough  for  the  deer  to  be  within  the  river,  that 
his  aim  might  be  the  surer.  Scarcely  had  he  begun  to  hear 
that  peculiar  sound  which  is  produced  by  the  violent  disturb- 
ance of  water,  when  Garces  commenced  to  lift  himself  little 
by  little,  with  the  greatest  precaution,  resting  first  on  the 
tips  of  his  fingers,  and  afterwards  on  one  knee. 

Erect  at  last,  and  assuring  himself  by  touch  that  his  weapon 
was  ready,  he  took  a  step  forward,  craned  his  neck  above 
the  shrubs  to  command  a  view  of  the  pool  and  aimed  the 
shaft,  but  at  the  very  moment  when  he  strained  his  eyes, 
together  with  the  cord,  in  search  of  the  victim  whom  he  must 
wound,  there  escaped  from  his  lips  a  faint,  involuntary  cry 
of  amazement. 

The  moon,  which  had  been  slowly  climbing  up  the  broad 
horizon,  was  motionless,  and  hung  as  if  suspended  in  the 
height  of  heaven.  Her  clear  radiance  flooded  the  forest, 
shimmered  on  the  unquiet  surface  of  the  river,  and  caused 
objects  to  be  seen  as  through  an  azure  gauze. 

The  deer  had  disappeared. 

In  their  place,  Garces,  filled  with  consternation  and  almost 


1 2  2  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

with  terror,  saw  a  throng  of  most  beautiful  women,  some  of 
whom  were  sportively  entering  the  water,  while  others  were 
just  freeing  themselves  from  the  light  garments  which  as  yet 
concealed  from  the  covetous  view  the  treasure  of  their  forms. 

In  those  thin,  brief  dreams  of  dawn,  rich  in  joyous  and 
luxurious  images, — dreams  as  diaphanous  and  celestial  as 
the  light  which  then  begins  to  shine  through  the  white  bed- 
curtains,  never  had  the  imagination  of  twenty  years  sketched 
with  fanciful  coloring  a  scene  equal  to  that  which  now  pre- 
sented itself  to  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  Garces. 

Having  now  cast  off  their  robes  and  their  veils  of  a  thou- 
sand colors  which,  suspended  from  the  trees  or  thrown  care- 
lessly down  on  the  carpet  of  turf,  stood  out  against  the  dim 
background,  the  maidens  ran  hither  and  thither  through  the 
grove,  forming  picturesque  groups,  going  in  and  out  of  the 
water  and  splashing  it  in  glistening  sparks  over  the  flowers 
of  the  margin,  like  a  little  shower  of  dewdrops. 

Here,  one  of  them,  white  as  the  fleece  of  a  lamb,  lifted  her 
fair  head  among  the  green  floating  leaves  of  an  aquatic  plant 
of  which  she  seemed  the  half-opened  blossom  whose  flexible 
stem,  one  might  imagine,  could  be  seen  to  tremble  be- 
neath the  endless  gleaming  circles  of  the  waves. 

Another,  with  her  hair  loose  on  her  shoulders,  swung  from 
the  branch  of  a  willow  over  the  river,  and  her  little  rose-colored 
feet  made  a  ray  of  silvery  light  as  they  grazed  the  smooth 
surface.  While  some  remained  couched  on  the  bank,  with 
their  blue  eyes  drowsy,  breathing  voluptuously  the  perfume 
of  the  flowers  and  shivering  slightly  at  the  touch  of  the  fresh 
breeze,  others  were  dancing  in  a  giddy  round,  interlacing 
their  hands  capriciously,  letting  their  heads  droop  back  with 
delicious  abandon,  and  striking  the  ground  with  their  feet  in 
harmonious  cadence. 

It  was  impossible  to  follow  them  in  their  agile  movements, 
impossible  to  take  in  with  a  glance  the  infinite  details  of  the 


THE  WHITE  DOE  123 

picture  they  formed,  some  running,  some  gambolling  and 
chasing  one  another  with  merry  laughter  in  and  out  the  laby- 
rinth of  trees  ;  others  skimming  the  water  swanlike  and  cut- 
ting the  current  with  uplifted  breast ;  others,  diving  into  the 
depths  where  they  remained  long  before  rising  to  the  surface, 
bringing  one  of  those  wonderful  flowers  that  spring  unseen 
in  the  bed  of  the  deep  waters. 

The  gaze  of  the  astonished  hunter  wandered  spellbound 
from  one  side  to  another,  without  knowing  where  to  fix  itself, 
until  he  believed  he  saw,  seated  under  swaying  boughs  which 
seemed  to  serve  her  as  a  canopy  and  surrounded  by  a  group 
of  women,  each  more  beautiful  than  the  rest,  who  were  aid- 
ing her  in  freeing  herself  from  her  delicate  vestments,  the 
object  of  his  secret  worship,  the  daughter  of  the  noble  Don 
Dionis,  the  incomparable  Constanza. 

Passing  from  one  surprise  to  another,  the  enamoured  youth 
dared  not  credit  the  testimony  of  his  senses,  and  thought  he 
was  under  the  influence  of  a  fascinating,  delusive  dream. 

Still,  he  struggled  in  vain  to  convince  himself  that  all  he 
had  seen  was  the  effect  of  disordered  imagination,  for  the 
longer  and  more  attentively  he  looked,  the  more  convinced 
he  became  that  this  woman  was  Constanza. 

He  could  not  doubt ;  hers  were  those  dusky  eyes  shaded 
by  the  long  lashes  that  scarcely  sufficed  to  soften  the  bril- 
liancy of  their  glance  ;  hers  that  wealth  of  shining  hair, 
which,  after  crowning  her  brow,  fell  over  her  white  bosom 
and  soft  shoulders  like  a  cascade  of  gold  ;  hers,  too,  that 
graceful  neck  which  supported  her  languid  head,  lightly 
drooping  like  a  flower  weary  with  its  weight  of  dewdrops  ; 
and  that  fair  figure  of  which,  perchance,  he  had  dreamed, 
and  those  hands  like  clusters  of  jasmine,  and  those  tiny 
feet,  comparable  only  to  two  morsels  of  snow  which  the 
sun  has  not  been  able  to  melt  and  which  in  the  morning  lie 
white  on  the  greensward. 


124  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

At  the  moment  when  Con  stanza  emerged  from  the  little 
thicket,  all  her  beauty  unveiled  to  her  lover's  eyes,  her  com- 
panions, beginning  anew  to  sing,  carolled  these  words  to  the 
sweetest  of  melodies. 

CHORUS. 

"  Genii  of  the  air,  dwelling  in  the  luminous  ether,  enveloped  in  raiment  of 
silver  mist— come ! 

"Invisible  sylphs,  leave  the  cups  of  the  half-opened  lilies  and  come  in 
your  mother-of-pearl  chariots  drawn  through  the  air  by  harnessed 
butterflies. 

"  Nymphs  of  the  fountains,  forsake  your  mossy  beds  and  fall  upon  us  in 
little,  diamond  showers. 

"  Emerald  beetles,  fiery  glow-worms,  sable  butterflies,  come  ! 

"And  come,  all  ye  spirits  of  night,  come  humming  like  a  swarm  of  lus- 
trous, golden  insects. 

*'  Come,  for  now  the  moon,  protector  of  mysteries,  sparkles  in  the  ful- 
ness of  splendor. 

•'  Come,  for  the  moment  of  marvellous  transformation  is  at  hand. 

"Come,  for  those  who  love  you,  await  you  with  impatience." 

Garces,  who  remained  motionless,  felt  on  hearing  those 
mysterious  songs  the  asp  of  jealousy  stinging  his  heart,  and 
yielding  to  an  impulse  stronger  than  his  will,  bent  on  break- 
ing once  for  all  the  spell  that  was  fascinating  his  senses, 
thrust  apart  with  a  tremulous,  convulsive  hand  the  boughs 
which  concealed  him,  and  with  a  single  bound  gained  the 
river-bank.  The  charm  was  broken,  everything  vanished 
like  a  vapor  and,  looking  about  him,  he  neither  saw  nor 
heard  more  than  the  noisy  confusion  with  which  the  timid 
deer,  surprised  at  the  height  of  their  nocturnal  gambols, 
were  fleeing  in  fright  from  his  presence,  hither  and  thither, 
one  clearing  the  thickets  with  a  bound,  another  gaining  at 
full  speed  the  mountain  path. 

"  Oh,  well  did  I  say  that  all  these  things  were  only  de- 
lusions of  the  Devil,"  exclaimed  the  hunter,  "but  this  time, 
by  good  luck,  he  blundered,  leaving  the  chief  prize  in  my 
hands." 


THE  WHITE  DOE 


T2S 


And  so,  in  fact,  it  was.  The  white  doe,  trying  to  escape 
through  the  grove,  had  rushed  into  the  labyrinth  of  its  trees 
and,  entangled  in  a  network  of  honeysuckles,  was  striving  in 
vain  to  free  herself.  Carets  aimed  his  shaft,  but  at  the  very 
instant  in  which  he  was  going  to  wound  her,  the  doe  turned 
toward  the  hunter  and  arrested  his  action  with  a  cry,  saying 
in  a  voice  clear  and  sharp  :  "  Garces,  what  wouldst  thou  do  ? " 
The  young  man  hesitated  and,  after  a  moment's  doubt,  let 
his  bow  fall  to  the  ground,  aghast  at  the  mere  idea  of  having 
been  in  danger  of  harming  his  beloved.  A  loud,  mocking 
laugh  roused  him  finally  from  his  stupor.  The  white  doe 
had  taken  advantage  of  those  brief  instants  to  extricate  her- 
self and  to  flee  swift  as  a  flash  of  lightning,  laughing  at  the 
trick  played  on  the  hunter. 

"  Ah,  damned  offspring  of  Satan  !  "  he  shouted  in  a  terrible 
voice,  catching  up  his  bow  with  unspeakable  swiftness,  "  too 
soon  hast  thou  sung  thy  victory  ;  too  soon  hast  thou  thought 
thyself  beyond  my  reach."  And  so  saying,  he  sped  the  arrow, 
that  went  hissing  on  its  way  and  was  lost  in  the  darkness 
of  the  wood,  from  whose  depths  there  simultaneously  came  a 
shriek  followed  by  choking  groans. 

"  My  God  I  "  exclaimed  Garces  on  hearing  those  sobs  of 
anguish.  "My  God!  if  it  should  be  true!"  And  beside 
himself,  hardly  aware  of  what  he  did,  he  ran  like  a  madman 
in  the  direction  in  which  he  had  shot  the  arrow,  the  same 
direction  from  which  sounded  the  groans.  He  reached  the 
place  at  last,  but  on  arriving  there,  his  hair  stood  erect  with 
horror,  the  words  throbbed  vainly  in  his  throat  and  he  had 
to  clutch  the  trunk  of  a  tree  to  save  himself  from  falling  to 
the  ground. 

Constanza,  wounded  by  his  hand,  was  dying  there  before 
his  eyes,  writhing  in  her  own  blood,  among  the  sharp  brambles 
of  the  mountain. 


THE  PASSION  ROSE 

One  summer  afternoon,  in  a  garden  of  Toledo,  this  curious 
tale  was  related  to  me  by  a  young  girl  as  good  as  she  was 
pretty. 

While  explaining  to  me  the  mystery  of  its  especial  struc- 
ture, she  kissed  the  leaves  and  pistils  which  she  was  pluck- 
ing one  by  one  from  the  flower  that  gives  to  this  legend  its 
name. 

If  I  could  tell  it  with  the  gentle  charm  and  the  appealing 
simplicity  which  it  had  upon  her  lips,  the  history  of  the  un- 
happy Sara  would  move  you  as  it  moved  me. 

But  since  this  cannot  be,  I  here  set  down  what  of  the 
tradition  I  can  at  this  instant  recall. 


In  one  of  the  most  obscure  and  crooked  lanes  of  the  Im- 
perial City,  wedged  in  and  almost  hidden  between  the  high 
Moorish  tower  of  an  old  Visigothic  church  and  the  gloomy 
walls,  sculptured  with  armorial  bearings,  of  a  family  mansion, 
there  was  many  years  ago  a  tumbledown  dwelling-house  dark 
and  miserable  as  its  owner,  a  Jew  named  Daniel  Levi. 

This  Jew,ilike  all  his  race,  was  spiteful  and  vindictive,  but 
for  deceit  and  hypocrisy  he  had  no  match. 

The  possessor,  according  to  popular  report,  of  an  immense 
fortune,  he  might  nevertheless  be  seen  all  day  long  huddled 
up  in  the  shadowy  doorway  of  his  home,  making  and  repair- 
ing chains,  old  belts  and  broken  trappings  of  all  sorts,  in 
which  he  carried  on  a  thriving  business  with  the  riff-raff  of 

126 


A    MOORISH     WINDOW 


CALlFOgJ 


THE  PASSION  ROSE  127 

the  Zocodover,  the  hucksters  of  the  Postigo  and  the  poor 
squires. 

Though  an  implacable  hater  of  Christians  and  of  every- 
thing pertaining  to  them,  he  never  passed  a  cavalier  of  note 
or  an  eminent  canon  without  doffing,  not  only  once,  but  ten 
times  over,  the  dingy  little  cap  which  covered  his  bald, 
yellow  head,  nor  did  he  receive  in  his  wretched  shop  one  of 
his  regular  customers  without  bending  low  in  the  most  humble 
salutations  accompanied  by  flattering  smiles. 

The  smile  of  Daniel  had  come  to  be  proverbial  in  all 
Toledo,  and  his  meekness,  proof  against  the  most  vexatious 
pranks,  mocks  and  cat-calls  of  his  neighbors,  knew  no 
limit. 

In  vain  the  boys,  to  tease  him,  stoned  his  poor  old  house  ; 
in  vain  the  little  pages  and  even  the  men-at-arms  of  the 
neighboring  castle  tried  to  provoke  him  by  insulting  nick- 
names, or  the  devout  old  women  of  the  parish  crossed  them- 
selves when  passing  his  door  as  if  they  saw  the  very  Lucifer 
in  person.  Daniel  smiled  eternally  with  a  strange,  indescrib- 
able smile.  His  thin,  sunken  lips  twitched  under  the  shadow 
of  his  nose,  which  was  enormous  and  hooked  like  the  beak 
of  an  eagle,  and  although  from  his  eyes,  small,  green,  round 
and  almost  hidden  by  the  heavy  brows,  there  gleamed  a 
spark  of  ill-suppressed  anger,  he  went  on  imperturbably 
beating  with  his  little  iron  hammer  upon  the  anvil  where  he 
repaired  the  thousand  rusty  and  seemingly  useless  trifles 
which  constituted  his  stock  in  trade. 

Over  the  door  of  the  Jew's  humble  dwelling  and  within  a 
casing  of  bright-colored  tiles  there  opened  an  Arabic  window 
left  over  from  the  original  building  of  the  Toledan  Moors. 
Around  the  fretted  frame  of  the  window  and  climbing  over 
the  slender  marble  colonettes  that  divided  it  into  two  equal 
apertures  there  arose  from  the  interior  of  the  house  one  of 
those  climbing  plants  which,  green  and  full  of  sap  and  of 


128  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

exuberant  growth,  spread  themselves  over  the  blackened  walls 
of  ruins. 

In  the  part  of  the  house  that  received  an  uncertain  light 
through  the  narrow  spaces  of  the  casement,  the  only  opening 
in  the  time-stained,  weather-worn  wall,  lived  Sara,  the  be- 
loved daughter  of  Daniel. 

When  the  neighbors,  passing  the  shop  of  the  Hebrew, 
chanced  to  see  Sara  through  the  lattice  of  her  Moorish 
window  and  Daniel  crouched  over  his  anvil,  they  would  ex- 
claim aloud  in  admiration  of  the  charms  of  the  beautiful 
Jewess :  "  It  seems  impossible  that  such  an  ugly  old  trunk 
should  have  put  forth  so  beautiful  a  branch !  " 

For,  in  truth,  Sara  was  a  miracle  of  beauty.  In  the  pupils 
of  her  great  eyes,  shadowed  by  the  cloudy  arch  of  their  black 
lashes,  gleamed  a  point  of  light  like  a  star  in  a  darkened 
sky.  Her  glowing  lips  seemed  to  have  been  cut  from  a  car- 
mine weft  by  the  invisible  hands  of  a  fairy.  Her  complexion 
was  pale  and  transparent  as  the  alabaster  of  a  sepulchral 
statue.  She  was  scarcely  sixteen  years  of  age  and  yet  there 
seemed  engraven  on  her  countenance  the  sweet  seriousness  of 
precocious  intelligence,  and  there  arose  from  her  bosom  and 
escaped  from  her  mouth  those  sighs  which  reveal  the  vague 
awakening  of  passion. 

The  most  prominent  Jews  of  the  city,  captivated  by  her 
marvellous  beauty,  had  sought  her  in  marriage,  but  the 
Hebrew  maiden,  untouched  by  the  homage  of  her  admirers 
and  the  counsels  of  her  father,  who  urged  her  to  choose  a 
companion  before  she  should  be  left  alone  in  the  world,  held 
herself  aloof  in  a  deep  reserve,  giving  no  other  reason  for  her 
strange  conduct  than  the  caprice  of  wishing  to  retain  her 
freedom.  At  last,  one  of  her  adorers,  tired  of  suffering 
Sara's  repulses  and  suspecting  that  her  perpetual  sadness 
was  a  certain  sign  that  her  heart  hid  some  important  secret, 
approached  Daniel  and  said  to  him : 


THE  PASSION  ROSE 


129 


"  Do  you  know,  Daniel,  that  among  our  brothers  there  is 
complaint  of  your  daughter  ?  " 

The  Jew  raised  his  eyes  for  an  instant  from  his  anvil, 
stopped  his  eternal  hammering  and,  without  showing  the 
least  emotion,  asked  his  questioner : 

"  And  what  do  they  say  of  her  ?  " 

"  They  say,"  continued  his  interlocutor,  "  they  say — what 
do  I  know  ? — many  things  ;  among  them,  that  your  daughter 
is  in  love  with  a  Christian."  At  this,  the  despised  suitor 
waited  to  see  what  effect  his  words  had  had  upon  Daniel. 

Daniel  raised  his  eyes  once  more,  looked  at  him  fixedly  a 
moment  without  speaking  and,  lowering  his  gaze  again  to 
resume  his  interrupted  work,  exclaimed  : 

"  And  who  says  this  is  not  slander  ?  " 

"  One  who  has  seen  them  more  than  once  in  this  very 
street  talking  together  while  you  were  absent  at  our  Rabbin- 
ical service,"  insisted  the  young  Hebrew,  wondering  that 
his  mere  suspicions,  much  more  his  positive  statements, 
should  have  made  so  little  impression  on  the  mind  of  Daniel. 

The  Jew,  without  giving  up  his  work,  his  gaze  fixed  upon 
the  anvil  where  he  was  now  busying  himself,  his  little  hammer 
laid  aside,  in  brightening  the  metal  clasp  of  a  sword  guard 
with  a  small  file,  began  to  speak  in  a  low,  broken  voice  as  if 
his  lips  were  repeating  mechanically  the  thoughts  that  strug- 
gled through  his  mind : 

"  He  !  He  I  He  !  "  he  chuckled,  laughing  in  a  strange, 
diabolical  way.  "  So  a  Christian  dog  thinks  he  can  snatch 
from  me  my  Sara,  the  pride  of  our  people,  the  staff  on  which 
my  old  age  leans  !  And  do  you  believe  he  will  do  it  ?  He  I 
He  ! "  he  continued,  always  talking  to  himself  and  always 
laughing,  while  his  file,  biting  the  metal  with  its  teeth  of 
steel,  grated  with  an  ever-increasing  force.  "  He !  He  I 
•  Poor  Daniel,'  my  friends  will  say,  *  is  in  his  dotage.  What 
right  has  this  decrepit  old  fellow,  already  at  death's  door,  to 


130  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

a  daughter  so  young  and  so  beautiful,  if  he  doesn't  know  how 
to  guard  her  from  the  covetous  eyes  of  our  enemies  ?  *  He  1 
He  1  He  I  Do  you  think  perchance  that  Daniel  sleeps  ?  Do 
you  think,  peradventure,  that  if  my  daughter  has  a  lover — 
and  that  might  well  be — and  this  lover  is  a  Christian  and 
tries  to  win  her  heart  and  wins  it — all  which  is  possible 
— and  plans  to  flee  with  her — which  also  is  easy — and  flees, 
for  instance,  to-morrow  morning, — which  falls  within  human 
probability, — do  you  think  that  Daniel  will  suffer  his  treasure 
to  be  thus  snatched  away  ?  Do  you  think  he  will  not  know 
how  to  avenge  himself?  " 

"  But,"  exclaimed  the  youth,  interrupting  him,  "  did  you 
then  know  it  before  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Daniel,  rising  and  giving  him  a  slap  on 
the  shoulder,  "  I  know  more  than  you,  who  know  nothing, 
and  would  know  nothing  had  not  the  hour  come  for  telling  all. 
Adieu  1  Bid  our  brethren  assemble  as  soon  as  possible. 
To-night,  in  an  hour  or  two,  I  will  be  with  them.     Adieu  1 " 

And  saying  this,  Daniel  gently  pushed  his  interlocutor 
out  into  the  street,  gathered  up  his  tools  very  slowly,  and 
began  to  fasten  with  double  bolts  and  bars  the  door  of  his 
little  shop. 

The  noise  made  by  the  door  as  it  closed  on  its  creaking 
hinges  prevented  the  departing  youth  from  hearing  the  sound 
of  the  window  lattice,  which  at  the  same  time  fell  suddenly 
as  if  the  Jewess  were  just  withdrawing  from  the  embrasure. 

II. 

It  was  the  night  of  Good  Friday,  and  the  people  of  Toledo, 
after  having  attended  the  service  of  the  Tenebrae  in  their 
magnificent  cathedral,  had  just  retired  to  rest,  or,  gathered 
at  their  firesides,  were  relating  legends  like  that  of  the  Christ 
of  the  Light,  a  statue  which,  stolen  by  Jews,  left  a  trail  of  blood 
causing  the  discovery  of  the  criminals,  or  the  story  of  the 


THE  PASSION  ROSE  i  ^  I 

Child  Martyr,  upon  whom  the  implacable  enemies  of  our  faith 
repeated  the  cruel  Passion  of  Jesus.  In  the  city  there  reigned 
a  profound  silence,  broken  at  intervals,  now  by  the  distant 
cries  of  the  night-watchman,  at  that  epoch  accustomed  to 
keep  guard  about  the  Alcazar,  and  again  by  the  sighing  of 
the  wind  which  was  whirling  the  weather-cocks  of  the  towers 
or  sighing  through  the  tortuous  windings  of  the  streets.  At 
this  dead  hour  the  master  of  a  little  boat  that,  moored  to  a 
post,  lay  swaying  near  the  mills  which  seem  like  natural  in- 
crustations at  the  foot  of  the  rocks  bathed  by  the  Tagus  and 
above  which  the  city  is  seated,  saw  approaching  the  shore, 
descending  with  difficulty  one  of  the  narrow  paths  which  lead 
down  from  the  height  of  the  walls  to  the  river,  a  person  whom 
he  seemed  to  await  with  impatience. 

"  It  is  she,"  the  boatman  muttered  between  his  teeth.  "  It 
would  seem  that  this  night  all  that  accursed  race  of  Jews  is 
bent  on  mischief.  Where  the  devil  will  they  hold  their  tryst 
with  Satan  that  they  all  come  to  my  boat  when  the  bridge  is 
so  near  ?  No,  they  are  bound  on  no  honest  errand  when 
they  take  such  pains  to  avoid  a  sudden  meeting  with  the 
soldiers  of  San  Servando, —  but,  after  all,  they  give  me  the 
chance  to  earn  good  money  and — every  man  for  himself — 
it  is  no  business  of  mine." 

Saying  this,  the  worthy  ferryman,  seating  himself  in  his 
boat,  adjusted  the  oars,  and  when  Sara,  for  it  was  no  other 
than  she  for  whom  he  had  been  waiting,  had  leaped  into  the 
little  craft,  he  cast  off  the  rope  that  held  it  and  began  to  row 
toward  the  opposite  shore. 

"  How  many  have  crossed  to-night  ?  "  asked  Sara  of  the 
boatman,  when  they  had  scarcely  pulled  away  from  the  mills, 
as  though  referring  to  something  of  which  they  had  just  been 
speaking. 

"  I  could  not  count  them,"  he  replied,  "  a  swarm.  It  looks 
as  though  to-night  will  be  the  last  of  their  gatherings." 


132 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


"  And  do  you  know  what  they  have  in  mind  and  for  what 
purpose  they  leave  the  city  at  this  hour  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  it  is  hkely  that  they  are  expecting 
some  one  who  ought  to  arrive  to-night.  I  cannot  tell  why 
they  are  lying  in  wait  for  him,  but  I  suspect  for  no  good 
end." 

After  this  brief  dialogue  Sara  remained  for  some  moments 
plunged  in  deep  silence  as  if  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts. 
"  Beyond  a  doubt,"  she  reflected,  "  my  father  has  discovered 
our  love  and  is  preparing  some  terrible  vengeance.  I  must 
know  where  they  go,  what  they  do,  and  what  they  are  plot- 
ting.    A  moment  of  hesitation  might  be  death  to  him." 

While  Sara  sprang  to  her  feet  and,  as  if  to  thrust  away  the 
horrible  doubts  that  distracted  her,  passed  her  hand  over  her 
forehead  which  anguish  had  covered  with  an  icy  sweat,  the 
boat  touched  the  opposite  shore. 

"  Friend,"  exclaimed  the  beautiful  Jewess,  tossing  some 
coins  to  the  ferryman  and  pointing  to  a  narrow,  crooked 
road  that  wound  up  among  the  rocks,  "  is  that  the  way  they 
take  ?  " 

**  It  is,  and  when  they  come  to  the  Moor's  Head  they  turn 
to  the  left.  Then  the  Devil  and  they  know  where  they  go 
next,"  replied  the  boatman. 

Sara  set  out  in  the  direction  he  had  indicated.  For 
some  moments  he  saw  her  appear  and  disappear  alternately 
in  that  dusky  labyrinth  of  dim,  steep  rocks.  When  she  had 
reached  the  summit  called  the  Moor's  Head,  her  dark  sil- 
houette was  outlined  for  an  instant  against  the  azure  back- 
ground of  the  sky  and  then  was  lost  amid  the  shades  of 
night. 

III. 

On  the  path  where  to-day  stands  the  picturesque  hermitage 
of  the  Virgin  of  the  Valley,  and  about  two  arrow  flights  from 


THE  PASSION  ROSE  i^^ 

the  summit  known  by  the  Toledan  populace  as  the  Moor's 
Head,  there  existed  at  that  period  the  ruins  of  a  B)'zantine 
church  of  date  anterior  to  the  Arab  conquest. 

In  the  porch,  outhned  by  rough  blocks  of  marble  scattered 
over  the  ground,  were  growing  brambles  and  other  parasitical 
plants,  among  which  lay,  half  concealed — here,  the  shattered 
capital  of  a  column,  there,  a  square-hewn  stone  rudely  sculp- 
tured with  interlacing  leaves,  horrible  or  grotesque  monsters 
and  formless  human  figures.  Of  the  temple  there  remained 
standing  only  the  side  walls  and  some  broken  ivy-grown 
arches. 

Sara,  who  seemed  to  be  guided  by  a  supernatural  instinct, 
on  arriving  at  the  point  the  boatman  had  indicated, 
hesitated  a  little,  uncertain  which  way  to  take  ;  but,  finally, 
with  a  firm  and  resolute  step,  directed  her  course  toward  the 
abandoned  ruins  of  the  church. 

In  truth,  her  instinct  had  not  been  at  fault ;  Daniel,  who 
was  no  longer  smiling,  no  longer  the  feeble  and  humble  old 
man,  but  rather,  fury  flashing  from  his  little  round  eyes, 
seemed  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  Vengeance,  was  in  the  midst 
of  a  throng  of  Jews  eager,  like  himself,  to  wreak  their  thirsty 
hate  on  one  of  the  enemies  of  their  religion.  He  seemed  to 
multiply  himself,  giving  orders  to  some,  urging  others  for- 
ward in  the  work,  making,  with  a  hideous  solicitude,  all  the 
necessary  preparations  for  the  accomplishment  of  the  fright- 
ful deed  which  he  had  been  meditating,  day  in,  day  out, 
while,  impassive,  he  hammered  the  anvil  in  his  den  at 
Toledo. 

Sara,  who,  favored  by  the  darkness,  had  succeeded  in 
reaching  the  porch  of  the  church,  had  to  make  a  supreme 
effort  to  suppress  a  cry  of  horror  as  her  glance  penetrated 
its  interior.  In  the  ruddy  glow  of  a  blaze  which  threw  the 
shadow  of  that  infernal  group  on  the  walls  of  the  church,  she 
thought  she  saw  that  some  were  making  efforts  to  raise  a 


134  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

heavy  cross,  while  others  wove  a  crown  of  briers,  or  sharp- 
ened on  a  stone  the  points  of  enormous  nails.  A  fearful 
thought  crossed  her  mind.  She  remembered  that  her  raqe 
had  been  accused  more  than  once  of  mysterious  crimes.  She 
recalled  vaguely  the  terrifying  story  of  the  Crucified  Child 
which  she  had  hitherto  believed  a  gross  calumny  invented 
by  the  populace  for  the  taunting  and  reproaching  of  the 
Hebrews. 

But  now  there  was  no  longer  room  for  doubt.  There, 
before  her  eyes,  were  those  awful  instruments  of  martyrdom, 
and  the  ferocious  executioners  only  awaited  their  victim. 

Sara,  filled  with  holy  indignation,  overflowing  with  noble 
wrath  and  inspired  by  that  unquenchable  faith  in  the  true 
God  whom  her  lover  had  revealed  to  her,  could  not  control 
herself  at  sight  of  that  spectacle,  and,  breaking  through  the 
tangled  undergrowth  that  concealed  her,  suddenly  appeared 
on  the  threshold  of  the  temple. 

On  beholding  her  the  Jews  raised  a  cry  of  amazement,  and 
Daniel,  taking  a  step  toward  his  daughter  with  threatening 
aspect,  hoarsely  asked  her :  "  What  seekest  thou  here,  un- 
happy one  ?  " 

"  I  come  to  cast  in  your  faces,"  said  Sara,  in  a  clear,  un- 
faltering voice,  "  all  the  shame  of  your  infamous  work  and  I 
come  to  tell  you  that  in  vain  you  await  the  victim  for  the 
sacrifice,  unless  you  mean  to  quench  in  me  your  thirst  for 
blood,  for  the  Christian  you  are  expecting  will  not  come, 
because  I  have  warned  him  of  your  plot." 

"  Sara  1  "  exclaimed  the  Jew,  roaring  with  anger,  "  Sara, 
this  is  not  true ;  thou  canst  not  have  been  so  treacherous  to 
us  as  to  reveal  our  mysterious  rites.  If  it  is  true  that  thou 
hast  revealed  them,  thou  art  no  longer  my  daughter." 

"  No,  I  am  not  thy  daughter.  I  have  found  another  Father, 
a  father  all  love  for  his  children,  a  Father  whom  you  Jews 
nailed   to  an  ignominious  cross  and  who  died  upon  it  to 


THE  PASSION  ROSE 


135 


redeem  us,  opening  to  us  for  an  eternity  the  doors  of  heaven. 
No,  I  am  no  longer  thy  daughter,  for  I  am  a  Christian,  and 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  origin." 

On  hearing  these  words,  pronounced  with  that  strong 
fortitude  which  heaven  puts  only  into  the  mouth  of  martyrs, 
Daniel,  blind  with  rage,  rushed  upon  the  beautiful  Hebrew 
girl  and,  throwing  her  to  the  ground,  dragged  her  by  the 
hair,  as  though  he  were  possessed  by  an  infernal  spirit,  to 
the  foot  of  the  cross  which  seemed  to  open  its  bare  arms  to 
receive  her. 

**  Here  I  deliver  her  up  to  you,"  he  exclaimed  to  those 
who  stood  around.  "  Deal  justice  to  this  shameless  one, 
who  has  sold  her  honor,  her  religion  and  her  brethren." 

IV. 

On  the  day  following,  when  the  cathedral  bells  were  peal- 
ing the  Gloria  and  the  worthy  citizens  of  Toledo  were  amus- 
ing themselves  by  shooting  from  crossbows  at  Judases  of 
straw,  just  as  is  done  to-day  in  some  of  our  villages,  Daniel 
opened  the  door  of  his  shop,  according  to  his  custom  and, 
with  that  everlasting  smile  on  his  lips,  commenced  to  salute 
the  passers-by,  beating  ceaselessly  on  his  anvil  with  his  little 
iron  hammer;  but  the  lattices  of  Sara's  Moorish  window 
were  unopened,  nor  was  the  beautiful  Jewess  ever  seen  again 
reclining  at  her  casement  of  colored  tiles. 


They  say  that  some  years  afterward  a  shepherd  brought 
to  the  archbishop  a  flower  till  then  unknown,  in  which  were 
represented  all  the  instruments  of  the  Saviour's  martyrdom 
— a  flower  strange  and  mysterious,  which  had  grown,  a 
climbing  vine,  over  the  crumbling  walls  of  the  ruined 
church. 

Penetrating  into  that  precinct  and  seeking  to  discover  the 


136  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

origin  of  this  marvel,  there  was  found,  they  add,  the  skeleton 
of  a  woman  and,  buried  with  her,  those  instruments  of  the 
Passion  which  characterize  the  flower. 

The  skeleton,  although  no  one  could  ascertain  whose  it 
might  be,  was  preserved  many  years  with  special  veneration 
in  the  hermitage  of  San  Pedro  el  Verde^  and  the  flower,  now 
common,  is  called  the  Passion  Rose. 


BELIEVE  IN  GOD 

A  Provefi^al  Ballad. 

"  I  was  the  true  Teobaldo  de  Mo?itagut,  Baron  of  Fort- 
castell.  Lord  or  serf,  noble  or  commoner,  thou,  whosoever 
thou  mayst  be,  who pausest  an  instant  beside  my  sepulchre^ 
believe  in  God,  as  I  have  believed,  and  pray  for  me^ 


Ye  gallant  Knights  Errant,  who,  lance  in  rest,  vizor  closed, 
mounted  on  powerful  charger,  ride  the  world  over  with  no 
more  patrimony  than  your  illustrious  name  and  your  good 
sword,  seeking  honor  and  glory  in  the  profession  of  arms, — 
if  on  crossing  the  rugged  valley  of  Montagut  yoii  have  been 
overtaken  by  night  and  storm  and  have  found  a  refuge  in  the 
ruins  of  the  monastery  still  to  be  seen  in  its  bosom,  hearken 
to  me  I 


Ye  Shepherds,  who  follow  with  slow  step  your  herds  that 
go  grazing  far  and  wide  over  the  hills  and  plains,  if  on  lead- 
ing them  to  the  border  of  the  transparent  rivulet  which  runs, 
struggling  and  leaping,  amid  the  great  rocks  of  the  valley  of 
Montagut  in  the  drought  of  summer,  ye  have  found,  on  a 
fiery  afternoon,  shade  and  slumber  beneath  the  broken  mon- 
astery arches,  whose  mossy  pillars  kiss  the  waves,  hearken 
to  me ! 

^2>1 


138  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


Little  Daughters  of  the  hamlets  roundabout,  ye  wild  lilies 
who  bloom  happy  in  the  shelter  of  your  humbleness,  if  on 
the  morning  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  this  locality,  coming  down 
into  the  valley  of  Montagut  to  gather  clovers  and  daisies  to 
deck  his  shrine,  conquering  the  fear  which  the  sombre  mon- 
astery, rising  on  its  rocks,  strikes  to  your  childish  hearts,  ye 
have  ventured  into  its  silent  and  deserted  cloister  to  wander 
amid  its  forsaken  tombs,  on  whose  edges  grow  the  fuUest- 
petaled  daisies  and  the  bluest  harebells,  hearken  to  me  1 


Thou,  Noble  Knight,  perchance  by  the  gleam  of  a  light- 
ning flash ;  thou.  Wandering  Shepherd,  bronzed  by  the  fierce 
heat  of  the  sun  ;  thou.  Lovely  Child,  still  besprent  with  drops 
of  dew  like  tears,  all  ye  would  have  seen  in  that  holy  place 
a  tomb,  a  lowly  tomb.  Formerly  it  consisted  of  an  unhewn 
stone  and  a  wooden  cross ;  the  cross  has  disappeared  and 
only  the  stone  remains.  In  this  tomb,  whose  inscription  is 
the  motto  of  my  song,  rests  in  peace  the  last  baron  of  Fort- 
castell,  Teobaldo  de  Montagut,  whose  strange  history  I  am 
about  to  tell. 

L 

While  the  noble  Countess  of  Montagut  was  pregnant  with 
her  firstborn  son,  Teobaldo,  she  had  a  strange  and  terrible 
dream.  Perchance  a  divine  warning  ;  mayhap  a  vain  fantasy 
which  time  made  real  in  later  years.  She  dreamed  that  in  her 
womb  she  had  borne  a  serpent,  a  monstrous  serpent  that, 
darting  out  shrill  hisses,  now  gliding  through  the  short  grass, 
now  coiling  upon  itself  for  a  spring,  fled  from  her  sight,  hiding 
at  last  in  a  clump  of  briers. 


BELIEVE  IN  GOD  1^^ 

"  There  it  is  !  there  it  is  !  "  shrieked  the  Countess  in  her 
horrible  nightmare,  pointing  out  to  her  servitors  the  brambles 
among  which  the  nauseous  reptile  had  sought  concealment. 

When  the  servitors  had  swiftly  reached  the  spot  which  the 
noble  lady,  motionless  and  overwhelmed  by  a  profound 
terror,  was  still  pointing  out  to  them  with  her  finger,  a  white 
dove  rose  from  out  the  prickly  thicket  and  soared  to  the 
clouds. 

The  serpent  had  disappeared. 

II. 

Teobaldo  was  born.  His  mother  died  in  giving  him 
birth ;  his  father  perished  a  few  years  later  in  an  ambus- 
cade, warring  like  a  good  Christian  against  the  Moors,  the 
enemies  of  God. 

From  this  time  on  the  youth  of  the  heir  of  Fortcastell  can 
be  likened  only  to  a  hurricane.  Wherever  he  went,  his  way 
was  marked  by  a  trail  of  tears  and  blood.  He  hanged  his 
vassals,  he  fought  his  equals,  he  pursued  maidens,  he  beat 
the  monks,  and  never  ceased  from  oaths  and  blasphemies. 
There  was  no  saint  in  peace,  no  hallowed  thing,  he  did  not 
curse. 

III. 

One  day  when  he  was  out  hunting  and  when,  as  was  his 
custom,  he  had  had  all  his  devilish  retinue  of  profligate  pages, 
inhuman  archers  and  debased  servants,  with  the  dogs,  horses 
and  gerfalcons,  take  shelter  from  the  rain  in  a  village  church 
of  his  demesne,  a  venerable  priest,  daring  the  young  lord's 
wrath,  not  quailing  at  thought  of  the  fury-fits  of  that  wild 
nature,  raised  the  consecrated  Host  in  his  hands  and  con- 
jured the  invader  in  the  name  of  Heaven  to  depart  from  that 
place  and  go  on  foot,  with  pilgrim  staff,  to  entreat  of  the  Pope 
absolution  for  his  crimes. 


140 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


"  Leave  me  alone,  old  fool  1  "  exclaimed  Teobaldo  on 
hearing  this, — "  leave  me  alone  !  Or,  since  I  have  not  come 
on  a  single  quarry  all  day  long,  I  will  let  loose  my  hounds 
and  chase  thee  like  a  wild  boar  for  my  sport." 

IV. 

With  Teobaldo  a  word  was  a  deed.  Yet  the  priest  made 
no  answer  save  this : 

"  Do  what  thou  wilt,  but  remember  that  there  is  a  God 
who  chastises  and  who  pardons.  If  I  die  at  thy  hands.  He 
will  blot  out  my  sins  from  the  book  of  His  displeasure,  to 
write  thy  name  in  their  place  and  to  make  thee  expiate  thy 
crime." 

"  A  God  who  chastises  and  pardons  I  "  interrupted  the 
blasphemous  baron  with  a  burst  of  laughter.  "  I  do  not  be- 
lieve in  God  and,  by  way  of  proof,  I  am  going  to  carry  out 
my  threat ;  for"  though  not  much  given  to  prayer,  I  am  a  man 
of  my  word.  Raimundo  !  Gerardo  !  Pedro  I  Set  on  the 
pack  1  give  me  a  javelin  !  blow  the  alali  on  your  horns,  since 
we  will  hunt  down  this  idiot,  though  he  climb  to  the  tops  of 
his  altars." 

V. 

After  an  instant's  hesitation  and  a  fresh  command  from 
their  lord,  the  pages  began  to  unleash  the  greyhounds  that 
filled  the  church  with  the  din  of  their  eager  barking ;  the 
baron  had  strung  his  crossbow,  laughing  a  Satanic  laugh ; 
and  the  venerable  priest,  murmuring  a  prayer,  was,  with  his 
eyes  raised  to  heaven,  tranquilly  awaiting  death,  when  there 
rose  outside  the  sacred  enclosure  a  wild  halloo,  the  braying^ 
of  horns  proclaiming  that  the  game  had  been  sighted,  and 
shouts  of  After  the  boar  I  Across  the  brushwood  /  To  the 
mountain  !     Teobaldo,  at  this  announcement  of  the  longed- 


BELIEVE  IN  GOD  141 

for  quarry,  dashed  open  the  doors  of  the  church,  transported 
by  deHght ;  behind  him  went  his  retainers,  and  with  his  re- 
tainers the  horses  and  hounds. 


VI. 

"  Which  way  went  the  boar  ? "  asked  the  baron  as  he 
sprang  upon  his  steed  without  touching  the  stirrups  or  un- 
stringing his  bow.  "  By  the  glen  which  runs  to  the  foot  of 
those  hills,"  they  answered  him.  Without  hearing  the  last 
word,  the  impetuous  hunter  buried  his  golden  spur  in  the 
flank  of  the  horse,  who  bounded  away  at  full  gallop.  Behind 
him  departed  all  the  rest. 

The  dwellers  in  the  hamlet,  who  had  been  the  first  to  give 
the  alarm  and  who,  at  the  approach  of  the  terrible  beast,  had 
taken  refuge  in  their  huts,  timidly  thrust  out  their  heads  from 
behind  their  window-shutters,  and  when  they  saw  that  the 
infernal  troop  had  disappeared  among  the  foliage  of  the 
woods,  they  crossed  themselves  in  silence. 

VII. 

Teobaldo  rode  in  advance  of  all.  His  steed,  swifter  by 
nature  or  more  severely  goaded  than  those  of  the  retainers, 
followed  so  close  to  the  quarry  that  twice  or  thrice  the  baron, 
dropping  his  bridle  upon  the  neck  of  the  fiery  courser,  had 
stood  up  in  his  stirrups  and  drawn  the  bow  to  his  shoulder 
to  wound  his  prey.  But  the  boar,  whom  he  saw  only  at 
intervals  among  the  tangled  thickets,  would  again  vanish 
from  view  to  reappear  just  out  of  reach  of  the  arrow. 

So  he  pursued  the  chase  hour  after  hour,  traversing  the 
ravines  of  the  valley  and  the  stony  bed  of  the  stream,  until, 
plunging  into  a  deep  forest,  he  lost  his  way  in  its  shadowy 
defiles,  his  eyes  ever  fixed  on  the  coveted  game  he  constantly 


142 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


expected  to  overtake,  only  to  find  himself  constantly  mocked 
by  its  marvellous  agility.  * 

VIII. 

At  last,  he  had  his  chance ;  he  extended  his  arm  and  let 
fly  the  shaft,  which  plunged,  quivering,  into  the  loin  of  the 
terrible  beast  that  gave  a  leap  and  a  frightful  snort. — "  Dead  !  " 
exclaims  the  hunter  with  a  shout  of  glee,  driving  his  spur 
for  the  hundredth  time  into  the  bloody  flank  of  his  horse. 
"  Dead  1  in  vain  he  flees.  The  trail  of  his  flowing  blood 
marks  his  way."  And  so  speaking,  Teobaldo  commenced 
to  sound  upon  his  bugle  the  signal  of  triumph  that  his 
retinue  might  hear. 

At  that  instant  his  steed  stopped  short,  its  legs  gave  way, 
a  slight  tremor  shook  its  strained  muscles,  it  fell  flat  to  the 
ground,  shooting  out  from  its  swollen  nostrils,  bathed  in 
foam,  a  rill  of  blood. 

It  had  died  of  exhaustion,  died  when  the  pace  of  the 
wounded  boar  was  beginning  to  slacken,  when  but  one  more 
effort  was  needed  to  run  the  quarry  down. 


IX. 

To  paint  the  wrath  of  the  fierce-tempered  Teobaldo  would 
be  impossible.  To  repeat  his  oaths  and  his  curses,  merely 
to  repeat  them,  would  be  scandalous  and  impious.  He 
shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice  to  his  retainers,  but  only  echo 
answered  him  in  those  vast  solitudes,  and  he  tore  his  hair 
and  plucked  at  his  beard,  a  prey  to  the  most  furious  despair. 
— "  I  will  run  it  down,  even  though  I  break  every  blood- 
vessel in  my  body,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  stringing  his  bow 
anew  and  making  ready  to  pursue  the  game  on  foot ;  but  at 
that  very  instant  he  heard  a  sound  behind  him ;  the  thick 


BELIEVE  IN  GOD  14- 

branches  of  the  wood  opened,  and  before  his  eyes  appeared 
a  page  leading  by  the  halter  a  charger  black  as  night. 

"  Heaven  hath  sent  it  to  me,"  exclaimed  the  hunter, 
leaping  upon  its  loins  lightly  as  a  deer.  The  page,  who  was 
thin,  very  thin,  and  yellow  as  death,  smiled  a  strange  smile 
as  he  handed  him  the  bridle. 


The  horse  whinnied  with  a  force  which  made  the  forest 
tremble,  gave  an  incredible  bound,  a  bound  that  raised  him 
more  than  thirty  feet  above  the  earth,  and  the  air  began  to 
hum  about  the  ears  of  the  rider,  as  a  stone  hums,  hurled 
from  a  sling.  He  had  started  off  at  full  gallop ;  but  at  a 
gallop  so  headlong  that,  afraid  of  losing  the  stirrups  and  in 
his  dizziness  falling  to  the  ground,  he  had  to  shut  his  eyes 
and  with  both  hands  clutch  the  streaming  mane. 

And  still  without  a  shake  of  the  reins,  without  touch  of 
spur  or  call  of  voice,  the  steed  ran,  ran  without  ceasing. 
How  long  did  Teobaldo  gallop  thus,  unwitting  where,  feeling 
the  branches  buffet  his  face  as  he  rushed  by,  and  the 
brambles  tear  at  his  clothing,  and  the  wind  whistle  about  his 
head  ?     No  human  being  knows. 

XL 

When,  recovering  courage,  he  opened  his  eyes  an  instant 
to  throw  a  troubled  glance  about  him,  he  found  himself  far, 
very  far  from  Montagut,  and  in  a  district  that  was  to  him 
entirely  unknown.  The  steed  ran,  ran  without  ceasing,  and 
trees,  rocks,  castles  and  villages  passed  by  him  like  a  breath. 
New  and  still  new  horizons  opened  to  his  view, — horizons 
that  melted  away  only  to  give  place  to  others  stranger  and 
yet  more  strange.  Narrow  valleys,  bristling  with  colossal 
fragments  of  granite  which  the  tempests  had  torn  down  from 


144  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

mountain-summits  ;  smiling  plains,  covered  with  a  carpet  of 
verdure  and  sprinkled  over  with  white  villages  ;  limitless 
deserts,  where  the  sands  seethed  beneath  the  searching  rays 
of  a  sun  of  fire ;  immeasurable  wildernesses,  boundless 
steppes,  regions  of  eternal  snow,  where  the  gigantic  icebergs, 
standing  out  against  a  dim  grey  sky,  were  like  .white  phan- 
toms reaching  out  their  arms  to  seize  him  by  the  hair  as  he 
fled  past ;  all  this,  and  thousands  of  other  sights  that  I  can- 
not depict,  he  saw  in  his  wild  race,  until,  enveloped  in  an 
obscure  cloud,  he  ceased  to  hear  the  tramp  of  his  horse's 
hoofs  beating  the  ground. 


I. 

Noble  Knights,  Shepherds,  Lovely  Little  Maids  who 
hearken  to  my  lay,  if  what  I  tell  be  a  marvel  in  your  ears, 
deem  it  not  a  fable  woven  at  my  whim  to  steal  a  march  on 
ycur  credulity ;  from  mouth  to  mouth  this  tradition  has  been 
passed  down  to  me,  and  the  inscription  upon  the  tomb  which 
still  abides  in  the  monastery  of  Montagut  is  an  unimpeach- 
able proof  of  the  veracity  of  my  words. 

Believe,  then,  what  I  have  told,  and  believe  what  I  have 
yet  to  tell,  for  it  is  as  certain  as  the  foregoing,  although  more 
wonderful.  Perchance  I  shall  be  able  to  adorn  with  a  few 
graces  of  poetry  the  bare  skeleton  of  this  simple  and  terrible 
history,  but  never  will  I  consciously  depart  one  iota  from  the 
truth. 

IL 

When  Teobaldo  ceased  to  perceive  the  hoof-beats  of  his 
courser  and  felt  himself  hurled  forth  upon  the  void,  he  could 
not  repress  an  involuntary  shudder  of  terror.     Up  to  this 


BELIEVE  IN  GOD  14^ 

point  he  had  believed  that  the  objects  which  flashed  before 
his  eyes  were  the  wild  visions  of  his  imagination,  perturbed 
as  it  was  by  giddiness,  and  that  his  steed  ran  uncontrolled, 
to  be  sure,  but  still  ran  within  the  boundaries  of  his  own 
seigniory.  Now  there  remained  na  doubt  that  he  was  the 
S-port  of  a  supernatural  power,  which  was  hurrying  him  he 
knew  not  whither,  through  those  masses  of  dark  'clouds, 
clouds  of  freakish  and  fantastic  forms,  in  whose  depths,  lit 
up  from  time  to  time  by  flashes  of  lightning,  he  thought  he 
could  distinguish  the  burning  thunderbolts  about  to  break 
upon  him. 

The  steed  still  ran,  or,  be  it  better  said,  swam  now  in  that 
.ocean  of  vague  and  fiery  vapors,  and  the  wonders  of  the  sky 
began  to  display  themselves  one  after  another  before  the 
astounded  eyes  of  his  rider. 

III. 

He  saw  the  angels,  ministers  of  the  wrath  of  God,  clad  in 
long  tunics  with  fringes  of  fire,  their  burning  hair  loose  on  the 
hurricane,  their  brandished  swords,  which  flashed  the  light- 
ning, throwing  out  sparks  of  crimson  light, — he  saw  this 
heavenly  cavalry  wheeling  upon  the  clouds,  sweeping  like  a 
mighty  army  over  the  wings  of  the  tempest. 

And  he  mounted  higher,  and  he  deemed  he  descried,  from 
far  above,  the  stormy  clouds  like  a  sea  of  lava,  and  heard  the 
thunder  moan  below  him  as  moans  the  ocean  breaking  on 
the  cliff  from  whose  summit  the  pilgrim  views  it  all  amazed. 

IV. 

And  he  saw  the  archangel,  white  as  snow,  who,  throned 
on  a  great  crystal  globe,  steers  it  through  space  in  the  cloud- 
less nights  like  a  silver  boat  over  the  surface  of  an  azure 
lake. 


146  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

And  he  saw  the  sun  revolving  in  splendor  on  golden  axles 
through  an  atmosphere  of  color  and  of  flame,  and  at  its  centre 
the  fiery  spirits  who  dwell  unharmed  in  that  intensest  glow 
and  from  its  blazing  heart  entone  to  their  Creator  hymns  of 
praise. 

He  saw  the  threads  of  imperceptible  light  which  bind  men 
to  the  stars,  and  he  saw  the  rainbow  arch,  thrown  like  a 
colossal  bridge  across  the  abyss  which  divides  the  first  from 
the  second  heaven. 


By  a  mystic  stair  he  saw  souls  descend  to  earth  ;  he  saw 
many  come  down,  and  few  go  up.  Each  one  of  these  inno- 
cent spirits  went  accompanied  by  a  most  radiant  archangel 
who  covered  it  with  the  shadow  of  his  wings.  The  arch- 
angels who  returned  alone  came  in  silence,  weeping;  but 
the  others  mounted  singing  like  the  larks  on  April  mornings. 

Then  the  rosy  and  azure  mists  which  floated  in  the  ether, 
like  curtains  of  transparent  gauze,  were  rent,  as  Holy  Satur- 
day, the  Day  of  Glory,  rends  in  our  churches  the  veiling  of 
the  altars,  and  the  Paradise  of  the  Righteous  opened,  da^*, 
zling  in  its  beauty,  to  his  gaze. 

VI. 

There  were  the  holy  prophets  whom  you  have  seen  rudely 
sculptured  on  the  stone  portals  of  our  cathedrals,  there  the 
shining  virgins jwhom  the  painter  vainly  strives,  in  the  stained 
glass  of  the  ogive  windows,  to  copy  from  his  dreams  ;  there 
the  cherubim  with  their  long  and  floating  robes  and  haloes 
of  gold ;  as  in  the  altar  pictures  ;  there,  at  last,  crowned  with 
stars,  clad  in  light,  surrounded  by  all  the  celestial  hierarchy, 
and  beautiful  beyond  all  thought.  Our  Lady  of  Montserrat, 
Mother  of  God,  Queen  of  Archangels,  the  shelter  of  sinners 
and  the  consolation  of  the  afflicted. 


^    Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


BELIEVE  IN-  GOD  147 

VII. 

Beyond  the  Paradise  of  the  Righteous  ;  beyond  the  throne 
where  sits  the  Virgin  Mary.  The  mind  of  Teobaldo  was 
stricken  by  terror ;  a  fathomless  fear  possessed  his  soul. 
Eternal  solitude,  ecernal  silence  live  in  those  spaces  that  lead 
to  the  mysterious  sanctuary  of  the  Most  High.  From  time 
to  time  a  rush  of  wind,  cold  as  the  blade  of  a  poniard,  smote 
his  forehead, — a  wind  that  shriveled  his  hair  with  horror  and 
penetrated  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones, — a  wind  like  to  those 
which  announced  to  the  prophets  the  approach  of  the  Divine 
Spirit.  At  last  he  reached  a  point  where  he  thought  he  per- 
ceived a  dull  murmur  that  might  be  likened  to  the  far-off 
hum  of  a  swarm  of  bees,  when,  in  autumn  evenings,  they 
hover  around  the  last  of  the  flowers. 

VIII. 

He  crossed  that  fantastic  region  whither  go  all  the  accents 
i)f_the  earth,  the  sounds  which  we  say  have  ceased,  the  words 
which  we  deem  are  lost  in  the  air,  the  laments  which  we  be- 
lieve are  heard  of  none. 

There,  in  a  harmonious  circle,  float  the  prayers  of  little 
children,  the  orisons  of  virgins,  the  psalms  of  holy  hermits, 
the  petitions  of  the  humble,  the  chaste  words  of  the  pure  in 
heart,  the  resigned  moans  of  those  in  pain,  the  sobs  of  souls 
that  suffer  and  the  hymns  of  souls  that  hope.  Teobaldo 
heard  among  those  voices,  that  throbbed  still  in  the  lumi- 
nous ether,  the  voice  of  his  sainted  mother  who  prayed  to  God 
for  him  ;  but  he  heard  no  prayer  of  his  own. 

IX. 

Further  on,  thousands  on  thousands  of  harsh,  rough  accents 
wounded  his  ears  with  a  discordant  roar, — blasphemies,  cries 
for  vengeance,  drinking  songs,  indecencies,  curses  of  despair, 
threats  of  the  helpless,  and  sacrilegious  oaths  of  the  impious. 


148  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Teobaldo  traversed  the  second  circle  with  the  rapidity  of 
a  meteor  crossing  the  sky  in  a  summer  evening,  that  he  might 
not  hear  his  own  voice  which  vibrated  there  thunderously 
loud,  exceeding  all  other  voices  in  the  stress  of  that  inferhal 
concert. 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  God  !  I  do  not  believe  in  God  I  " 
still  spake  his  tone  beating  through  that  ocean  of  blasphem- 
ies ;  and  Teobaldo  began  to  believe. 

X. 

He  left  those  regions  behind  him  and  crossed  other  illim- 
itable spaces  full  of  terrible  visions,  which  neither  could  he 
comprehend  nor  am  I  able  to  conceive,  and  finally  he  came 
to  the  uppermost  circle  of  the  spiral  heavens,  where  the  sera- 
phim adore  Jehovah,  covering  their  faces  with  their  triple 
wings  and  prostrate  at  His  feet. 

He  would  see  God. 

A  waft  of  fire  scorched  his  face,  a  sea  of  light  darkened 
his  eyes,  unbearable  thunder  resounded  in  hrs  ears  and, 
caught  from  his  charger  and  hurled  into  the  void,  like  an 
incandescent  stone  shot  out  from  a  volcano,  he  felt  himself 
falling,  and  falling  without  ever  alighting,  blind,  burned  and 
deafened,  as  the  rebellious  angel  fell  when  God  overthrew 
with  a  breath  the  pedestal  of  his  pride. 


Night  had  shut  in,  and  the  wind  moaned  as  it  stirred  the 
leaves  of  the  trees,  through  whose  luxuriant  foliage  was  slip- 
ping a  soft  ray  of  moonlight,  when  Teobaldo,  rising  upon  his 
elbow  and  rubbing  his  eyes  as  if  awakening  from  profound 
slumber,  looked  about  him  and  found  himself  in  the  same 
wood  where  he  had  wounded  the  boar,  where  his  steed  fell 


BELIEVE  IN  GOD  149 

dead,  where  was  given  him  that  phantasmal  courser  which 
had  rushed  him  away  to  unknown,  mysterious  realms. 

A  deathlike  silence  reigned  about  him,  a  silence  broken 
only  by  the  distant  calling  of  the  deer,  the  timid  murmur  of 
the  leaves,  and  the  echo  of  a  far-off  bell  borne  to  his  ears 
from  time  to  time  upon  the  gentle  gusts. 

"  I  must  have  dreamed,"  said  the  baron,  and  set  forth  on 
his  way  across  the  wood,  coming  out  at  last  into  the  open. 

II. 

At  a  great  distance,  and  above  the  rocks  of  Montagut,  he 
saw  the  black  silhouette  of  his  castle  standing  out  against 
the  blue,  transparent  background  of  the  night  sky — "  My 
castle  is  far  away  and  I  am  weary,"  he  muttered.  "I  will 
await  the  day  in  this  village-hut  near  by,"  and  he  bent  his 
steps  to  the  hut.  He  knocked  at  the  door.  "  Who  are  you  ? " 
they  demanded  from  within.  "  The  Baron  of  Fortcastell," 
he  replied,  and  they  laughed  in  his  face.  He  knocked  at 
another  door.  "  Who  are  you  and  what  do  you  want  ?  " 
these,  too,  asked  him.  '*  Your  liege  lord,"  urged  the  knight, 
surprised  that  they  did  not  recognize  him.  "  Teobaldo  de 
Montagut."  "-Teobaldo  de  Montagut!"  angrily  repeated 
the  person  within,  a  woman  not  yet  old.  "  Teobaldo  de 
Montagut,  the  count  of  the  story  !  Bah  !  Go  your  way  and 
don't  come  back  to  rouse  honest  folk  from  their  sleep  to  hear 
your  stupid  jests." 

III. 

Teobaldo,  full  of  astonishment,  left  the  village  and  pursued 
his  way  to  the  castle,  at  whose  gates  he  arrived  when  it  was 
scarcely  dawn.  The  moat  was  filled  up  with  great  blocks 
of  stone  from  the  ruined  battlements  ;  the  raised  drawbridge, 
now  useless,  was  rotting  as  it  still  hung  from  its  strong  iron 


15©  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

chains,  covered  with  rust  though  they  were  by  the  wasting  of 
the  years ;  in  the  homage-tower  slowly  tolled  a  bell ;  in  front 
of  the  principal  arch  of  the  fortress  and  upon  a  granite 
pedelstal  was  raised  a  cross  ;  upon  the  walls  not  a  single 
soldier  was  to  be  discerned  ;  and,  indistinct  and  muffled,  there 
seemed  to  come  from  its  heart  like  a  distant  murmur  a  sacred 
hymn,  grave,  solemn  and  majestic. 

"  But  this  is  my  castle,  beyond  a  doubt,"  said  Teobaldo, 
shifting  his  troubled  gaze  from  one  point  to  another,  unable 
to  comprehend  the  situation.  "  That  is  my  escutcheon,  still 
engraved  above  the  keystone  of  the  arch.  This  is  the  valley 
of  Montagut.  These  are  the  lands  it  governs,  the  seigniory 
of  Fortcastell  " — 

At  this  instant  the  heavy  doors  swung  upon  their  hinges 
and  a  monk  appeared  beneath  the  lintel. 

IV. 

"  Who  are  you  and  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  demanded 
Teobaldo  of  the  monk. 

"  I  am,"  he  answered,  "  a  humble  servant  of  God,  a  monk 
of  the  monastery  of  Montagut." 

"  But  " — interrupted  the  baron.  "  Montagut  ?  Is  it  not  a 
seigniory  ?  " 

"  It  was,"  replied  the  monk,  "  a  long  time  ago.  Its  last 
lord,  the  story  goes,  was  carried  off  by  the  Devil,  and  as  he 
left  no  heir  to  succeed  him  in  the  fief,  the  Sovereign  Counts 
granted  his  estate  to  the  monks  of  our  order,  who  have  been 
here  for  a  matter  of  from  one  hundred  to  one  hundred  and 
twenty  years.     And  you — who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  " — stammered  the  Baron  of  Fortcastell,  after  a  long 
moment  of  silence,  "  I  am — a  miserable  sinner,  who,  repent- 
ing of  his  misdeeds,  comes  to  make  confession  to  your  abbot 
and  beg  him  for  admittance  into  the  bosom  of  his  faith." 


THE  PROMISE 
I. 

Margarita,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  was  weeping ; 
she  did  not  sob,  but  the  tears  ran  silently  down  her  cheeks, 
slipping  between  her  fingers  to  fall  to  the  earth  toward  which 
her  brow  was  bent. 

Near  Margarita  was  Pedro,  who  from  time  to  time  lifted 
his  eyes  to  steal  a  glance  at  her  and,  seeing  that  she  still 
wept,  dropped  them  again,  maintaining  for  his  part  utter 
silence. 

All  was  hushed  about  them,  as  if  respecting  her  grief. 
The  murmurs  of  the  field  were  stilled,  the  breeze  of  evening 
slept,  and  darkness  was  beginning  to  envelop  the  dense 
growth  of  the  wood. 

Thus  some  moments  passed,  during  which  the  trace  of 
light  that  the  dying  sun  had  left  on  the  horizon  faded  quite 
away ;  the  moon  began  to  be  faintly  sketched  against  the 
violet  background  of  the  twilight  sky,  and  one  after  another 
shone  out  the  brighter  stars. 

Pedro  broke  at  last  that  distressful  silence,  exclaiming  in 
a  hoarse  and  gasping  voice  and  as  if  he  were  communing 
with  himself : 

"  'Tis  impossible — impossible  !  " 

Then,  coming  close  to  the  inconsolable  maiden  and  taking 
one  of  her  hands,  he  continued  in  a  softer,  more  caressing 
tone: 

"  Margarita,  for  thee  love  is  all,  and  thou  seest  naught  be- 


1 5 2  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

yond  love.  Yet  there  is  one  thing  as  binding  as  our  love, 
and  that  is  my  duty.  Our  lord  the  Count  of  Gomara  goes 
forth  to-morrow  from  his  castle  to  join  his  force  to  the  army 
of  King  Fernando,  who  is  on  his  way  to  deliver  Seville  out 
of  the  power  of  the  Infidels,  and  it  is  my  duty  to  depart  with 
the  Count. 

"  An  obscure  orphan,  without  name  or  family,  I  owe  to 
him  all  that  I  am.  I  have  served  him  in  the  idle  days  of 
peace,  I  have  slept  beneath  his  roof,  I  have  been  warmed 
at  his  hearth  and  eaten  at  his  board.  If  I  forsake  him  now, 
to-morrow  his  men-at-arms,  as  they  sally  forth  in  marching 
array  from  his  castle  gates,  will  ask,  wondering  at  my  absence : 
*  Where  is  the  favorite  squire  of  the  Count  of  Gomara  ? ' 
And  my  lord  will  be  silent  for  shame,  and  his  pages  and  his 
fools  will  say  in  mocking  tone :  *  The  Count's  squire  is  only 
a  gallant  of  the  jousts,  a  warrior  in  the  game  of  courtesy.' " 

When  he  had  spoken  thus  far,  Margarita  lifted  her  eyes 
full  of  tears  to  meet  those  of  her  lover  and  moved  her  lips 
as  if  to  answer  him  ;  but  her  voice  was  choked  in  a  sob. 

Pedro,  with  still  tenderer  and  more  persuasive  tone,  went 
on  : 

"  Weep  not,  for  God's  sake,  Margarita ;  weep  not,  for 
thy  tears  hurt  me.  I  must  go  from  thee,  but  I  will  return 
as  soon  as  I  shall  have  gained  a  little  glory  for  my  obscure 
name. 

"  Heaven  will  aid  us  in  our  holy  enterprise  ;  we  shall  con- 
quer Seville,  and  to  us  conquerors  the  King  will  give  fiefs 
along  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir.  Then  I  will  come  back 
for  thee,  and  we  will  go  together  to  dwell  in  tnat  paradise  of 
the  Arabs,  where  they  say  the  sky  is  clearer  and  more  blue 
than  the  sky  above  Castile. 

"  I  will  come  back,  I  swear  to  thee  I  will ;  I  will  return  to 
keep  the  troth  solemnly  pledged  thee  that  day  when  I  placed 
on  thy  finger  this  ring,  symbol  of  a  promise." 


THE  PROMISE  155 

*'  Pedro  1  "  here  exclaimed  Margarita,  controlling  her  emo- 
tion and  speaking  in  a  firm,  determined  tone : 

"  Go,  go  to  uphold  thine  honor,"  and  on  pronouncing  these 
words,  she  threw  herself  for  the  last  time  into  the  embrace  of 
her  lover.  Then  she  added  in  a  tone  lower  and  more  shaken : 
"Go  to  uphold  thine  honor,  but  come  back — come  back — to 
save  mine." 

Pedro  kissed  the  brow  of  Margarita,  loosed  his  horse,  that 
was  tied  to  one  of  the  trees  of  the  grove,  and  rode  off  at  a 
gallop  through  the  depths  of  the  poplar-wood. 

Margarita  followed  Pedro  with  her  eyes  until  his  dim  form 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  shades  of  night.  When  he  could  no 
longer  be  discerned,  she  went  back  slowly  to  the  village  where 
her  brothers  were  awaiting  her. 

"  Put  on  thy  gala  dress,"  one  of  them  said  to  her  as  she 
entered,  "  for  in  the  morning  we  go  to  Gomara  with  all  the 
neighborhood  to  see  the  Count  marching  to  Andalusia." 

"  For  my  part,  it  saddens  rather  than  gladdens  me  to  see 
those  go  forth  who  perchance  shall  not  return,"  replied  Mar- 
garita with  a  sigh. 

"  Yet  come  with  us  thou  must,"  insisted  the  other  brother, 
*'  and  thou  must  come  with  mien  composed  and  glad ;  so  that 
the  gossiping  folk  shall  have  no  cause  to  say  thou  hast  a 
lover  in  the  castle,  and  thy  lover  goeth  to  the  war." 

II. 

Hardly  was  the  first  light  of  dawn  streaming  up  the  sky 
when  there  began  to  sound  throughout  all  the  camp  of 
Gomara  the  shrill  trumpeting  of  the  Count's  soldiers ;  and 
the  peasants  who  were  arriving  in  numerous  groups  from 
the  villages  round  about  saw  the  seigniorial  banner  flung  to  the 
winds  from  the  highest  tower  of  the  fortress. 

The  peasants  were  everywhere, — seated  on  the  edge  of  the 
moat,  ensconced  in  the  tops  of  trees,  strolling  over  the  plain, 


154  JROM ANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

crowning  the  crests  of  the  hills,  forming  a  line  far  along  the 
highway,  and  it  must  have  been  already  for  nearly  an  hour 
that  their  curiosity  had  awaited  the  show,  not  without  some 
signs  of  impatience,  when  the  ringing  bugle-call  sounded 
again,  the  chains  of  the  drawbridge  creaked  as  it  fell  slowly 
across  the  moat,  and  the  portcullis  was  raised,  while  little  by 
little,  groaning  upon  their  hinges,  the  massive  doors  of  the 
arched  passage  which  led  to  the  Court  of  Arms  swung  wide. 

The  multitude  ran  to  press  for  places  on  the  sloping  banks 
beside  the  road  in  order  to  see  their  fill  of  the  brilliant  armor 
and  sumptuous  trappings  of  the  following  of  the  Count  of 
Gomara,  famed  through  all  the  countryside  for  his  splendor 
and  his  lavish  pomp. 

The  march  was  opened  by  the  heralds  who,  halting  at  fixed 
intervals,  proclaimed  in  loud  voice,  to  the  beat  of  the  drum, 
the  commands  of  the  King,  summoning  his  feudatories  to  the 
Moorish  war  and  requiring  the  villages  and  free  towns  to  give 
passage  and  aid  to  his  armies. 

After  the  heralds  followed  the  kings-at-arms,  proud  of  their 
silken  vestments,  their  shields  bordered  with  gold  and  bright 
colors,  and  their  caps  decked  with  graceful  plumes. 

Then  came  the  chief  retainer  of  the  castle  armed  cap-k- 
pie,  a  knight  mounted  on  a  young  black  horse,  bearing  in  his 
hands  the  pennon  of  a  grandee  with  his  motto  and  device  ; 
at  his  left  hand  rode  the  executioner  of  the  seigniory,  clad  in 
black  and  red. 

The  seneschal  was  preceded  by  fully  a  score  of  those 
famous  trumpeters  of  Castile  celebrated  in  the  chronicles  of 
our  kings  for  the  incredible  power  of  their  lungs. 

When  the  shrill  clamor  of  their  mighty  trumpeting  ceased  to 
wound  the  wind,  a  dull  sound,  steady  and  monotonous,  began 
to  reach  the  ear, — the  tramp  of  the  foot-soldiers,  armed  with 
long  pikes  and  provided  with  a  leather  shield  apiece.  Behind 
these  soon  came  in  view  the  soldiers  who  managed  the  en- 


THE  PROMISE  I^^ 

gines  of  war,  with  their  crude  machines  and  their  wooden 
towers,  the  bands  of  wall-sealers  and  the  rabble  of  stable-boys 
in  charge  of  the  mules. 

Then,  enveloped  in  the  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  the  hoofs 
of  their  horses,  flashing  sparks  from  their  iron  breastplates, 
passed  the  men-at-arms  of  the  castle,  formed  in  thick  pla- 
toons, looking  from  a  distance  like  a  forest  of  spears. 

Last  of  all,  preceded  by  the  drummers  who  were  mounted 
on  strong  mules  tricked  out  in  housings  and  plumes,  sur- 
rounded by  pages  in  rich  raiment  of  silk  and  gold  and  fol- 
lowed by  the  squires  of  the  castle,  appeared  the  Count. 

As  the  multitude  caught  sight  of  him,  a  great  shout  of 
greeting  went  up  and  in  the  tumult  of  acclamation  was  stifled 
the  cry  of  a  woman,  who  at  that  moment,  as  if  struck  by  a 
thunderbolt,  fell  fainting  into  the  arms  of  those  who  sprang 
to  her  aid.  It  was  Margarita,  Margarita  who  had  recognized 
her  mysterious  lover  in  that  great  and  dreadful  lord,  the 
Count  of  Gomara,  one  of  the  most  exalted  and  powerful 
feudatories  of  the  Crown  of  Castile. 

III. 

The  host  of  Don  Fernando,  after  going  forth  from  Cordova, 
had  marched  to  Seville,  not  without  having  to  fight  its  way 
at  ficija,  Carmona,  and  Alcala  del  Rio  del  Guadaira,  whose 
famous  castle,  once  taken  by  storm,  put  the  army  in  sight  of 
the  stronghold  of  the  Infidels. 

The  Count  of  Gomara  was  in  his  tent  seated  on  a  bench 
of  larchwood,  motionless,  pale,  terrible,  his  hands  crossed 
upon  the  hilt  of  his  broadsword,  his  eyes  fixed  on  space  with 
that  vague  regard  which  appears  to  behold  a  definite  object 
and  yet  takes  cognizance  of  naught  in  the  encompassing 
scene. 

Standing  by  his  side,  the  squire  who  had  been  longest  in 
the  castle,  the  only  one  who  in  those  moods  of  black  de- 


156  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

spondency  could  have  ventured  to  intrude  without  drawing- 
down  upon  his  head  an  explosion  of  wrath,  was  speaking  to 
him.  "  What  is  your  ail,  my  lord  ?  "  he  was  saying.  "  What 
trouble  wears  and  wastes  you  ?  Sad  you  go  to  battle,  and 
sad  return,  even  though  returning  victorious.  When  all  the 
warriors  sleep,  surrendered  to  the  weariness  of  the  day,  I 
hear  your  anguished  sighs ;  and  if  I  run  to  your  bed,  I  see 
you  struggling  there  against  some  invisible  torment.  You 
open  your  eyes,  but  your  terror  does  not  vanish.  What  is 
it,  my  lord  ?  Tell  me.  If  it  be  a  secret,  I  will  guard  it  in 
the  depths  of  my  memory  as  in  a  grave." 

The  Count  seemed  not  to  hear  his  squire,  but  after  a  long 
pause,  as  if  the  words  had  taken  all  that  time  to  make  slow 
way  from  his  ears  to  his  understanding,  he  emerged  little  by 
little  from  his  trance  and,  drawing  the  squire  affectionately 
toward  him,  said  to  him  with  grave  and  quiet  tone : 

"  I  have  suffered  much  in  silence.  Believing  myself  the 
sport  of  a  vain  fantasy,  I  have  until  now  held  my  peace  for 
shame, — but  nay,  what  is  happening  to  me  is  no  illusion. 

'*  It  must  be  that  I  am  under  the  power  of  some  awful 
curse.  Heaven  or  hell  must  wish  something  of  me,  and  tell 
me  so  by  supernatural  events.  Recallest  thou  the  day  of  our 
encounter  with  the  Moors  of  Nebriza  in  the  Aljarafe  de 
Triana  ?  We  were  few,  the  combat  was  stern,  and  I  was 
face  to  face  with  death.  Thou  sawest,  in  the  most  critical 
moment  of  the  fight,  my  horse,  wounded  and  blind  with  rage, 
dash  toward  the  main  body  of  the  Moorish  host.  I  strove 
in  vain  to  check  him  ;  the  reins  had  escaped  from  my  hands, 
and  the  fiery  animal  galloped  on,  bearing  me  to  certain 
death. 

"  Already  the  Moors,  closing  up  their  ranks,  were  ground- 
ing their  long  pikes  to  receive  me  on  the  points ;  a  cloud  of 
arrows  hissed  about  my  ears ;  the  horse  was  but  a  few  bounds 
from  the  serried  spears  on  which  we  were  about  to  fling  our- 


^  Thp 

UNIVERSITY 

or 


THE  PROMISE  j-- 

selves,  when — believe  me,  it  was  not  an  illusion — I  saw  a 
hand  that,  grasping  the  bridle,  stopped  him  with  an  unearthly- 
force  and,  turning  him  in  the  direction  of  my  own  troops, 
saved  me  by  a  miracle. 

"  In  vain  I  asked  of  one  and  another  who  my  deliverer 
was ;  no  one  knew  him,  no  one  had  seen  him. 

*'  *  When  you  were  rushing  to  throw  yourself  upon  the  wall 
of  pikes,'  they  said,  'you  went  alone,  absolutely  alone  ;  this 
is  why  we  marvelled  to  see  you  turn,  knowing  that  the  steed 
no  longer  obeyed  his  rider.' 

"  That  night  I  entered  my  tent  distraught ;  I  strove  in  vain 
to  extirpate  from  my  imagination  the  memory  of  the  strange 
adventure ;  but  on  advancing  toward  my  bed,  again  I  saw 
the  same  hand,  a  beautiful  hand,  white  to  the  point  of  pallor, 
which  drew  the  curtains,  vanishing  after  it  had  drawn  them. 
Ever  since,  at  all  hours,  in  all  places,  I  see  that  mysterious 
hand  which  anticipates  my  desires  and  forestalls  my  actions. 
I  saw  it,  when  we  were  storming  the  castle  of  Triana,  catch 
between  its  fingers  and  break  in  the  air  an  arrow  which  was 
about  to  strike  me  ;  I  have  seen  it  at  banquets  where  I  was 
trying  to  drown  my  trouble  in  the  tumultuous  revelry,  pour 
the  wine  into  my  cup ;  and  always  it  flickers  before  my  eyes, 
and  wherever  I  go  it  follows  me ;  in  the  tent,  in  the  battle, 
by  day,  by  night, — even  now,  see  it,  see  it  here,  resting  gently 
on  my  shoulder  1 " 

On  speaking  these  last  words,  the  Count  sprang  to  his 
feet,  striding  back  and  forth  as  if  beside  himself,  overwhelmed 
by  utter  terror. 

The  squire  dashed  away  a  tear.  Believing  his  lord  mad, 
he  did  not  try  to  combat  his  ideas,  but  confined  himself  to 
saying  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion  : 

"  Come  ;  let  us  go  out  from  the  tent  a  moment ;  perhaps 
the  evening  air  will  cool  your  temples,  calming  this  incom- 
prehensible grief,  for  which  I  find  no  words  of  consolation." 


1^8  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

IV. 

The  camp  of  the  Christians  extended  over  all  the  plain  of 
Guadaira,  even  to  the  left  bank  of  the  Guadalquivir.  In 
front  of  the  camp  and  clearly  defined  against  the  bright 
horizon,  rose  the  walls  of  Seville  flanked  by  massive,  menacing 
towers.  Above  the  crown  of  battlements  showed  in  its  rich 
profusion  the  green  leafage  of  the  thousand  gardens  enclosed 
in  the  Moorish  stronghold,  and  amid  the  dim  clusters  of 
foliage  gleamed  the  observation  turrets,  white  as  snow,  the 
minarets  of  the  mosques,  and  the  gigantic  watch-tower,  over 
whose  aerial  parapet  the  four  great  balls  of  gold,  which  from 
the  Christian  camp  looked  like  four  flames,  threw  out,  when 
smitten  by  the  sun,  sparks  of  living  light. 

The  enterprise  of  Don  Fernando,  one  of  the  most  heroic 
and  intrepid  of  that  epoch,  had  drawn  to  his  banners  the 
greatest  warriors  of  the  various  kingdoms  in  the  Peninsula, 
with  others  who,  called  by  fame,  had  come  from  foreign,  far- 
off  lands  to  add  their  forces  to  those  of  the  Royal  Saint. 
Stretching  along  the  plain  might  be  seen,  therefore,  army- 
tents  of  all  forms  and  colors,  above  whose  peaks  waved  in  the 
wind  the  various  ensigns  with  their  quartered  escutcheons, — 
stars,  griffins,  lions,  chains,  bars  and  caldrons,  with  hundreds 
of  other  heraldic  figures  or  symbols  which  proclaimed  the 
name  and  quality  of  their  owners.  Through  the  streets  of 
that  improvised  city  were  circulating  in  all  directions  a  mul- 
titude of  soldiers  who,  speaking  diverse  dialects,  dressed 
each  in  the  fashion  of  his  own  locality  and  armed  according 
to  his  fancy,  formed  a  scene  of  strange  and  picturesque 
contrasts. 

Here  a  group  of  nobles  were  resting  from  the  fatigues 
of  combat,  seated  on  benches  of  larchwood  at  the  door  of 
their  tents  and  playing  at  chess,  while  their  pages  poured 
them  wine  in  metal  cups  ;  there  some  foot-soldiers  were  taking 


THE  PROMISE  i^^ 

advantage  of  a  moment  of  leisure  to  clean  and  mend  their 
armor,  the  worse  for  their  last  skirmish  ;  further  on,  the  most 
expert  archers  of  the  army  were  covering  the  mark  with  ar- 
rows, amidst  the  applause  of  the  crowd  marvelling  at  their 
dexterity  ;  and  the  beating  of  the  drums,  the  shrilling  of  the 
trumpets,  the  cries  of  pedlars  hawking  their  wares,  the  clang 
of  iron  striking  on  iron,  the  ballad-singing  of  the  minstrels 
who  entertained  their  hearers  with  the  relation  of  prodigious 
exploits,  and  the  shouts  of  the  heralds  who  published  the 
orders  of  the  camp-masters,  all  these,  fiUing  the  air  with 
thousands  of  discordant  noises,  contributed  to  that  picture 
of  soldier  life  a  vivacity  and  animation  impossible  to  portray 
in  words. 

The  Count  of  Gomara,  attended  by  his  faithful  squire, 
passed  among  the  lively  groups  without  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  ground,  silent,  sad,  as  if  not  a  sight  disturbed  his  gaze 
nor  the  least  sound  reached  his  hearing.  He  moved  mechan- 
ically, as  a  sleepwalker,  whose  spirit  is  busy  in  the  world  of 
dreams,  steps  and  takes  his  course  without  consciousness 
of  his  actions,  as  if  impelled  by  a  will  not  his  own. 

Close  by  the  royal  tent  and  in  the  middle  of  a  ring  of 
soldiers,  little  pages  and  camp-servants,  who  were  listening 
to  him  open-mouthed,  making  haste  to  buy  some  of  the 
tawdry  knickknacks  which  he  was  enumerating  in  a  loud 
voice,  with  extravagant  praises,  was  an  odd  personage,  half 
pilgrim,  half  minstrel,  who,  at  one  moment  reciting  a  kind  of 
litany  in  barbarous  Latin,  and  the  next  giving  vent  to  some 
buffoonery  or  scurrility,  was  mingling  in  his  interminable  tale 
devout  prayers  with  jests  broad  enough  to  make  a  common 
soldier  blush,  romances  of  illicit  love  with  legends  of  saints. 
In  the  huge  pack  that  hung  from  his  shoulders  were  a  thou- 
sand different  objects  all  tossed  and  tumbled  together, — rib- 
bons touched  to  the  sepulchre  of  Santiago,  scrolls  with  words 
which  he  averred  were  Hebrew,  the  very  same  that  King 


l6o  SOMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF   SPAIN 

Solomon  spoke  when  he  founded  the  temple,  and  the  only 
words  able  to  keep  you  free  of  every  contagious  disease; 
marvellous  balsams  capable  of  sticking  together  men  who 
were  cut  in  two  ;  secret  charms  to  make  all  women  in  love 
with  you ;  Gospels  sewed  into  little  silk  bags  ;  relics  of  the 
patron  saints  of  all  the  towns  in  Spain  ;  tinsel  jewels,  chains, 
sword-belts,  medals  and  many  other  gewgaws  of  brass,  glass 
and  lead. 

When  the  Count  approached  the  group  formed  by  the 
pilgrim  and  his  admirers,  the  fellow  began  to  tune  a  kind  of 
mandolin  or  Arab  guitar  with  which  he  accompanied  himself 
in  the  singsong  recital  of  his  romances.  When  he  had  thor- 
oughly tested  the  strings,  one  after  another,  very  coolly,  while 
his  companion  made  the  round  of  the  circle  coaxing  out  the 
last  coppers  from  the  flaccid  pouches  of  the  audience,  the  pil- 
grim began  to  sing  in  nasal  voice,  to  a  monotonous  and  plain- 
tive air,  a  ballad  whose  stanzas  always  ended  in  the  same 
refrain. 

The  Count  drew  near  the  group  and  gave  attention.  By 
an  apparently  strange  coincidence,  the  title  of  this  tale  was 
entirely  at  one  with  the  melancholy  thoughts  that  burdened 
his  mind.  As  the  singer  had  announced  before  beginning, 
the  lay  was  called  the  Ballad  of  the  Dead  Hand. 

The  squire,  on  hearing  so  strange  an  announcement,  had 
striven  to  draw  his  lord  away  ;  but  the  Count,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  minstrel,  remained  motionless,  listening  to  this 
song. 


A  maiden  had  a  lover  gay 
Who  said  he  was  a  squire ; 

The  war-drums  called  him  far  away ; 
Not  tears  could  quench  his  fire.  . 

"  Thou  goest  to  return  no  more." 
"  Nay,  by  all  oaths  that  bind  "— 


THE  PROMISE  j5j 

But  even  while  the  lover  swore, 

A  voice  was  on  the  wind  : 
III  fares  the  soul  that  sets  its  trust 
On  faith  of  dust. 

II. 

Forth  from  his  castle  rode  the  lord 

With  all  his  glittering  train, 
But  never  will  his  battle-sword 

Inflict  so  keen  a  pain. 
"  His  soldier-honor  well  he  keeps ; 

Mine  honor— blind  !  oh,  blind  !  " 
While  the  forsaken  woman  weeps, 

A  voice  is  on  the  wind  : 
III  fares  the  soul  that  sets  its  trust 
On  faith  of  dust. 

III. 

Her  brother's  eye  her  secret  reads; 

His  fatal  angers  burn. 
**  Thou  hast  us  shamed."     Her  terror  pleads,— 

"  He  swore  he  would  return." 
*'  But  not  to  find  thee,  if  he  tries, 

Where  he  was  wont  to  find." 
Beneath  her  brother's  blow  she  dies ; 

A  voice  is  on  the  wind  : 
III  fares  the  soul  that  sets  its  trust 
On  faith  of  dust. 

IV. 

In  the  trysting-wood,  where  love  made  mirth, 

They  have  buried  her  deep, — but  lo  I 
However  high  they  heap  the  earth, 

A  hand  as  white  as  snow 
Comes  stealing  up,  a  hand  whose  ring 

A  noble's  troth  doth  bind. 
Above  her  grave  no  maidens  sing. 

But  a  voice  is  on  the  wind : 

III  fares  the  soul  that  sets  its  trust 

On  faith  of  dust. 


1 62  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Hardly  had  the  singer  finished  the  last  stanza,  when, 
breaking  through  the  wall  of  eager  listeners  who  respect- 
fully gave  way  on  recognizing  him,  the  Count  fronted  the 
pilgrim  and,  clutching  his  arm,  demanded  in  a  low,  convulsive 
voice : 

"  From  what  part  of  Spain  art  thou  ?  '* 

"  From  Soria,"  was  the  unmoved  response. 

"  And  where  hast  thou  learned  this  ballad  ?  Who  is  that 
maiden  of  whom  the  story  tells  ?  "  again  exclaimed  the  Count, 
with  ever  more  profound  emotion. 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  pilgrim,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  Count 
with  imperturbable  steadiness,  "  this  ballad  is  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth  among  the  peasants  in  the  fief  of  Gomara, 
and  it  refers  to  an  unhappy  village-girl  cruelly  wronged  by  a 
great  lord.  The  high  justice  of  God  has  permitted  that, 
in  her  burial,  there  shall  still  remain  above  the  earth  the 
hand  on  which  her  lover  placed  a  ring  in  plighting  her  his 
troth.  Perchance  you  know  whom  it  behooves  to  keep  that 
pledge.'* 

V. 

In  a  wretched  village  which  may  be  found  at  one  side  of 
the  highway  leading  to  Gomara,  I  saw  not  long  since  the  spot 
where  the  strange  ceremony  of  the  Count's  marriage  is  said 
to  have  taken  place. 

After  he,  kneeling  upon  the  humble  grave,  had  pressed  the 
hand  of  Margarita  in  his  own,  and  a  priest,  authorized  by 
the  Pope,  had  blessed  Jthe  mournful  union,  the  story  goes  that 
the  miracle  ceased,  and  the  dead  hand  buried  itself  forever. 

At  the  foot  of  some  great  old  trees  there  is  a  bit  of 
meadow  which,  every  spring,  covers  itself  spontaneously  with 
flowers. 

The  country-folk  say  that  this  is  the  burial  place  of 
Margarita. 


THE  KISS 


When  a  division  of  the  French  army,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  took  possession  of  historic  Toledo, 
the  officers  in  command,  not  unaware  of  the  danger  to  which 
French  soldiers  were  exposed  in  Spanish  towns  by  being 
quartered  in  separate  lodgings,  commenced  to  fit  up  as  bar- 
racks the  largest  and  best  edifices  of  the  city. 

After  occupying  the  magnificent  palace  of  Carlos  V.  they 
appropriated  the  City  Hall,  and  when  this  could  hold  no 
more,  they  began  to  invade  the  pious  shade  of  monasteries, 
at  last  making  over  into  stables  even  the  churches  sacred  to 
worship.  Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  the  famous  old  town, 
scene  of  the  event  which  I  am  about  to  recount,  when  one 
night,  already  late,  there  entered  the  city,  muffled  in  their 
dark  army-cloaks  and  deafening  the  narrow,  lonely  streets, 
from  the  Gate  of  the  Sun  to  the  Zocodover,  with  the  clang 
of  weapons  and  the  resounding  beat  of  the  hoofs  that  struck 
sparks  from  the  flinty  way,  one  hundred  or  so  of  these  tall 
dragoons,  dashing,  mettlesome  fellows,  whom  our  grand- 
mothers still  tell  about  with  admiration. 

The  force  was  commanded  by  a  youthful  officer,  riding 
about  thirty  paces  in  advance  of  his  troop  and  talking  in  low 
tones  with  a  man  on  foot,  who,  so  far  as  might  be  inferred 
from  his  dress,  was  also  a  soldier.  Walking  in  front  of  his 
interlocutor,  with  a  small  lantern  in  hand,  he  seemed  to  be 
serving  as  guide  through  that  labyrinth. of  obscure,  twisted 
and  intertangled  streets. 

163 


1 64  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"In  sooth,"  said  the  trooper  to  his  companion,  "  if  the 
lodging  prepared  for  us  is  even  such  as  you  picture  it,  perhaps 
it  would  be  better  to  camp  out  in  the  country  or  in  one  of  the 
pubUc  squares." 

"  But  what  would  you,  my  captain  ?  "  answered  the  guide, 
who  was,  in  fact,  a  sergeant  sent  on  before  to  make  ready  for 
their  reception.  "  In  the  palace  there  is  not  room  for  another 
grain  of  wheat,  much  less  for  a  man  ;  of  San  Juan  de  los 
Reyes  there  is  no  use  in  talking,  for  there  it  has  reached  such 
a  point  that  in  one  of  the  friars'  cells  are  sleeping  fifteen 
hussars.  The  monastery  to  which  I  am  taking  you  was 
not  so  bad,  but  some,  three  or  four  days  ago  there  fell  upon 
us,  as  if  out  of  the  clouds,  one  of  the  flying  columns  that  scour 
the  province,  and  we  are  lucky  to  have  prevailed  on  them  to 
heap  themselves  up  along  the  cloisters  and  leave  the  chur 
free  for  us." 

"Ah,  well  I  "  exclaimed  the  officer,  after  a  brief  silence, 
with  an  air  of  resigning  himself  to  the  strange  quarters  which 
chance  had  apportioned  him,  "  an  ill  lodging  is  better  than 
none.  At  all  events,  in  case  of  rain, — not  unlikely,  judging 
from  the  massing  of  the  clouds, — we  shall  be  under  cover, 
and  that  is  something." 

With  this  the  conversation  was  broken  off,  and  the  troopers, 
preceded  by  the  guide,  took  the  onward  way  in  silence  until 
they  came  to  one  of  the  smaller  squares,  on  the  further  side 
of  which  stood  out  the  black  silhouette  of  the  monastery  with 
its  Moorish  minaret,  spired  bell-tower,  ogive  cupola  and  dark, 
uneven  roof. 

"  Here  is  your  lodging  !  "  exclaimed  the  sergeant  at  sight 
of  it,  addressing  the  captain,  who,  after  commanding  his  troop 
to  halt,  dismounted,  caught  the  lantern  from  the  hands  of  the 
guide,  and  took  his  way  toward  the  building  designated.    • 

Since  the  church  of  the  monastery  was  thoroughly  dis- 
mantled, the  soldiers  who  occupied  the  other  parts  of  the 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE  KISS  165 

building  had  thought  that  the  doors  were  now  a  trifle  less 
than  useless  and,  piece  by  piece,  had  wrenched  off  one  to-day, 
another  to-morrow,  to  make  bonfires  for  warming  themselves 
by  night. 

Our  young  officer,  therefore,  did  not  have  to  delay  for 
turning  of  keys  or  drawing  of  bolts  before  penetrating  into 
the  heart  of  the  sanctuary. 

By  the  light  of  the  lantern,  whose  doubtful  ray,  lost  in  the 
heavy  glooms  of  nave  and  aisles,  threw  in  giant  proportions 
upon  the  wall  the  fantastic  shadow  of  the  sergeant  going  on 
before,  he  traversed  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  church  and 
peered  into  the  deserted  chapels,  one  by  one,  until  he  had 
made  himself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  place,  when  he 
ordered  his  troop  to  dismount,  and  set  about  the  bestowing 
of  that  confused  crowd  of  men  and  horses  as  best  he  could. 

As  we  have  said,  the  church  was  completely  dismantled  ; 
before  the  High  Altar  were  still  hanging  from  the  lofty  cor- 
nices torn  shreds  of  the  veil  witjj  which  the  jnonks  had  cov- 
ered it  on  abandoning  that  holy  place  ;  at  intervals  along  the 
aisles  might  be  seen  shrines  fastened  against  the  wall,  their 
niches  bereft  of  images ;  in  the  choir  a  line  of  light  traced 
the  strange  contour  of  the  shadowy  larchwood  stalls  ;  upon  the 
pavement,  destroyed  at  various  points,  might  still  be  distin- 
guished broad  burial  slabs  filled  with  heraldic  devices,  shields 
and  long  Gothic  inscriptions  ;  and  far  away,  in  the  depths  of 
the  silent  chapels  and  along  the  transepts,  were  vaguely  visi- 
ble in  the  dimness,  like  motionless  white  spectres,  marble 
statues  which,  some  extended  at  full  length  and  others  kneel- 
ing on  their  stony  tombs,  appeared  to  be  the  only  tenants  of 
that  ruined  structure. 

For  anyone  less  spent  than  the  captain  of  dragoons,  who 
carried  in  his  body  the  fatigues  of  a  ride  of  fourteen  leagues, 
or  less  accustomed  to  seeing  these  sacrileges  as  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world,  two  drams  of  imagination  would 


1 66  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

have  suflficed  to  keep  eyes  from  closing  the  whole  night  long 
in  that  dusky,  awesome  haunt,  where  the  oaths  of  the  soldiers, 
who  were  loudly  complaining  of  their  improvised  barracks, 
the  metallic  clink  of  their  spurs  striking  rudely  against  the 
once  sepulchral  slabs  of  the  pavement,  the  clatter  of  the 
horses  as  they  pawed  impatiently,  tossing  their  heads  and 
rattling  the  chains  which  bound  them  to  the  pillars,  formed 
a  strange  and  fearful  confusion  of  sounds  that  reverberated 
through  the  reaches  of  the  church  and  was  repeated,  ever 
more  weirdly,  from  echo  to  echo  among  the  lofty  vaults. 

But  our  hero,  young  though  he  was,  had  already  become 
so  familiar  with  those  shiftings  of  the  scene  in  a  soldier's 
life,  that  scarcely  had  he  assigned  places  to  his  men  than  he 
ordered  a  sack  of  fodder  flung  down  at  the  foot  of  the  chan- 
cel steps,  and  rolling  himself  as  snugly  as  possible  into  his 
cloak,  resting  his  head  upon  the  lowest  stair,  in  five  minutes 
was  snoring  with  more  tranquillity  than  King  Joseph  himself 
in  his  palace  at  Madrid. 

The  soldiers,  making  pillows  of  the  saddles,  followed  his 
example,  and  little  by  little  the  murmur  of  their  voices  died 
away. 

Half  an  hour  later,  nothing  was  to  be  heard  save  the 
stifled  groans  of  the  wind  which  entered  by  the  broken  ogive 
windows  of  the  church,  the  skurrying  flights  of  night-birds 
whose  nests  were  built  in  the  stone  canopies  above  the  sculp- 
tured figures  of  the  walls,  and  the  tramp,  now  near,  now  far, 
of  the  sentry  who  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  portico,  wound 
in  the  wide  folds  of  his  military  cloak. 

II. 

In  the  epoch  to  which  the  account  of  this  incident,  no  less 
true  than  strange,  reverts,  the  city  of  Toledo,  for  those  who 
knew  not  how  to  value  the  treasures  of  art  which  its  walls 


I 


THE  KISS  i6y 

enclose,  was,  even  as  now,  no  more  than  a  great  huddle  of 
houses,  old-fashioned,  ruinous,  insufferable. 

The  officers  of  the  French  army  who,  to  judge  from  the 
acts  of  vandalism  by  which  they  left  in  Toledo  a  sad  and 
enduring  memory  of  their  occupation,  counted  few  artists 
and  archaeologists  in  their  number,  found  themselves,  as 
goes  without  the  saying,  supremely  bored  in  the  ancient  city 
of  the  Caesars. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  the  most  trifling  event  which  came 
to  break  the  monotonous  calm  of  those  eternal,  unvarying 
days  was  eagerly  caught  up  among  the  idlers,  so  that  the 
promotion  of  one  of  their  comrades  to  the  next  grade,  a 
report  of  the  strategic  movement  of  a  flying  column,  the 
departure  of  an  official  post  or  the  arrival  at  the  city  of  any 
military  force  whatsoever,  became  a  fertile  theme  of  conver- 
sation and  object  of  every  sort  of  comment,  until  something 
else  occurred  to  take  its  place  and  serve  as  foundation  for 
new  grumblings,  criticisms  and  conjectures. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  among  those  officers  who,  accord- 
ing to  their  custom,  gathered  on  the  following  day  to  take 
the  air  and  chat  a  little  in  the  Zocodover,  the  dish  of  gossip 
was  supplied  by  nothing  else  than  the  arrival  of  the  dragoons, 
whose  leader  was  left  in  the  former  chapter  stretched  out  at 
his  ease,  sleeping  off  the  fatigues  of  the  march.  For  up- 
wards of  an  hour  the  conversation  had  been  beating  about 
this  event,  and  already  various  explanations  had  been  put 
forward  to  account  for  the  non-appearance  of  the  new-comer, 
whom  an  officer  present,  a  former  schoolmate,  had  invited  to 
the  Zocodover,  when  at  last,  in  one  of  the  side-streets  that 
radiate  from  the  square,  appeared  our  gallant  captain,  no 
longer  obscured  by  his  voluminous  army-cloak,  but  sporting 
a  great  shining  helmet  with  a  plume  of  white  feathers,  a  tur- 
quoise-blue coat  with  scarlet  facings,  and  a  magnificent  two- 
handed  sword  in  a  steel  scabbard  which  clanked  as  it  struck 


1 68  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

the  ground  in  time  to  his  martial  stride  and  to  the  keener, 
sharper  clink  of  his  golden  spurs. 

As  soon  as  his  former  chum  caught  sight  of  him,  off  he 
went  to  meet  him  and  bid  him  welcome,  followed  by  almost 
all  the  officers  who  chanced  to  be  in  the  group  that  morning 
and  who  had  been  stirred  to  curiosity  and  a  desire  to  know 
him  by  what  they  had  already  heard  of  his  original,  extraor- 
dinary traits  of  character. 

After  the  customary  close  embraces,  and  the  exclamations, 
compliments  and  questions  enjoined  by  etiquette  in  meetings 
like  this  ;  after  discussing  at  length  and  in  detail  the  latest 
news  from  Madrid,  the  changing  fortune  of  the  war,  and  old 
friends  dead  or  far  away,  the  conversation,  flitting  from  one 
subject  to  another,  came  to  roost  at  last  on  the  inevitable 
theme,  to  wit,  the  hardships  of  the  service,  the  dearth  of 
amusements  in  the  city,  and  the  inconveniences  of  their 
lodgings. 

Now  at  this  juncture  one  of  the  company,  who,  it  would 
seem,  had  heard  of  the  ill  grace  with  which  the  young  officer 
had  resigned  himself  to  quartering  his  troop  in  the  abandoned 
church,  said  to  him  with  an  air  of  raillery  : 

"  And  speaking  of  lodgings,  what  sort  of  a  night  did  you 
have  in  yours  ?  " 

"  We  lacked  for  nothing,"  answered  the  captain,  "  and  if  it 
is  the  truth  that  I  slept  but  little,  the  cause  of  my  insomnia 
is  well  worth  the  pains  of  wakefulness.  A  vigil  in  the  society 
of  a  charming  woman  is  surely  not  the  worst  of  evils/' 

"  A  woman  I  "  repeated  his  interlocutor,  as  if  wondering 
at  the  good  fortune  of  the  new  arrival.  "  This  is  what  they 
call  ending  the  pilgrimage  and  kissing  the  saint." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  some  old  flame  of  the  Capital  who  follows 
him  to  Madrid  to  make  his  exile  more  endurable,"  added 
another  of  the  circle. 

"  Oh,  no  1 "  exclaimed  the  captain,  "  nothing  of  the  sort 


THE  KISS  169 

I  swear  to  you,  on  the  word  of  a  gentleman,  I  had  never 
seen  her  before,  nor  had  I  dreamed  of  finding  so  gracious  a 
hostess  in  so  bad  a  hostelry.  It  is  altogether  what  one  might 
call  a  genuine  adventure." 

"  Tell  it !  tell  it  1 "  chorused  the  officers  who  surrounded 
the  captain,  and  as  he  proceeded  so  to  do,  all  lent  the  most 
eager  attention,  while  he  began  his  story  thus  : 

"  I  was  sleeping  last  night  the  sleep  of  a  man  who  carries 
in  his  body  the  effects  of  a  thirteen-league  ride,  w^hen,  look 
you,  in  the  best  of  my  slumber  I  was  startled  wide-awake, — 
springing  up  and  leaning  on  my  elbows, — by  a  horrible  up- 
roar, such  an  uproar  fhat  it  deafened  me  for  an  instant  and 
left  my  ears,  a  full  minute  after,  humming  as  if  a  horse-fly 
were  singing  on  my  cheek. 

"  As  you  will  have  guessed,  the  cause  of  my  alarm  was  the 
first  stroke  which  I  heard  of  that  diabolical  campana  gorda, 
a  sort  of  bronze  chorister,  which  the  canons  of  Toledo  have 
placed  in  their  cathedral  for  the  praiseworthy  object  of  kill- 
ing the  weary  with  wrath. 

"  Cursing  between  my  teeth  both  bell  and  bell-ringer,  I  dis- 
posed myself,  as  soon  as  that  strange  and  frightful  noise  had 
ceased,  to  take  up  anew  the  thread  of  my  broken  dream, 
when  there  befell,  to  pique  my  imagination  and  challenge  my 
senses,  a  thing  of  wonder.  By  the  uncertain  moonlight 
which  entered  the  church  through  the  narrow  Moorish 
window  of  the  chancel  wall,  I  saw  a  woman  kneeling  at  the 
altar." 

The  officers  exchknged  glances  of  mingled  astonishment 
and  incredulity ;  the  captain,  without  heeding  the  impression 
his  narrative  was  making,  continued  as  follows : 

"  It  could  not  enter  into  man's  heart  to  conceive  that  noc- 
turnal, phantasmal  vision,  vaguely  outlined  in  the  twilight  of 
the  chapel,  like  those  virgins  painted  in  colored  glass 
that  you  have  sometimes    seen,  from  afar  off,  stand  out, 


170 


KOMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


white  and  luminous,  across  the  shadowy  stretch  of  the 
cathedrals. 

"  Her  oval  face,  on  which  one  saw  stamped  the  seal,  deli- 
cate and  spiritual,  of  emaciation,  her  harmonious  features 
full  of  a  gentle,  melancholy  sweetness,  her  intense  pallor,  the 
perfect  lines  of  her  slender  figure,  her  reposeful,  noble  pos- 
ture, her  robe  of  flowing  white,  brought  to  my  memory  the 
women  of  whom  I  used  to  dream  when  I  was  still  little  more 
than  a  child.  Chaste,  celestial  images,  illusive  objects  of 
the  wandering  love  of  youth  1 

"  I  believed  myself  the  sport  of  an  hallucination  and  not 
withdrawing  my  eyes  from  her  for  an  instant,  I  scarcely 
dared  breathe,  fearing  that  a  breath  might  dissolve  the 
enchantment. 

"  She  remained  motionless. 

"  The  fancy  crossed  my  mind,  on  seeing  her  so  shining,  so 
transparent,  that  this  was  no  creature  of  the  earth,  but  a 
spirit,  that,  once  more  assuming  for  an  instant  the  veil  of 
human  form,  had  descended  in  the  moonbeam,  leaving  in  the 
air  behind  it  the  azure  track  which  slanted  from  the  high 
window  to  the  foot  of  the  opposite  wall,  breaking  the  deep 
gloom  of  that  dusky,  mysterious  recess." 

"  But — "  interrupted  his  former  schoolmate,  who,  incHned 
at  the  outset  to  make  fun  of  the  story,  had  at  last  grown 
closely  attentive — "  how  came  that  woman  there  ?  Did 
you  not  speak  to  her?  Did  she  not  explain  to  you  her 
presence  in  that  place  ?  " 

"  T  decided  not  to  address  her,  because  I  was  sure  that  she 
would  not  answer  me,  nor  see  me,  nor  hear  me." 

"  Was  she  deaf  ?  " 

"  Was  she  blind  ?  " 

"  Was  she  dumb  ?  "  exclaimed  simultaneously  three  or 
four  of  those  who  were  listening  to  the  story. 


THE  KISS  171 

"  She  was  all  at  once,"  finally  declared  the  captain  after  a 
moment's  pause,  "  for  she  was marble." 

On  hearing  this  remarkable  denouement  of  so  strange  an 
adventure,  the  bystanders  burst  into  a  noisy  peal  of  laughter, 
while  one  of  them  said  to  the  narrator  of  this  curious  experi- 
ence, who  alone  remained  quiet  and  of  grave  deportment : 

"  We  will  make  a  complete  thing  of  it.  As  for  this  sort 
of  ladies,  I  have  more  than  a  thousand,  a  regular  seraglio,  in 
San  Juan  de  los  Reyes  ^  a  seraglio  which  from  this  time  on  I 
put  quite  at  your  service,  since,  it  would  seem,  a  woman  of 
stone  is  the  same  to  you  as  a  woman  of  flesh." 

"  Oh,  no  I "  responded  the  captain,  not  nettled  in  the 
slightest  by  the  laughter  of  his  companions.  "  I  am  sure 
that  they  cannot  be  like  mine.  Mine  is  a  true  Castilian  dame 
of  high  degree,  who  by  a  miracle  of  sculpture  appears  not  to 
have  been  buried  in  a  sepulchre,  but  still,  body  and  soul, 
to  kneel  upon  the  lid  of  her  own  tomb,  motionless,  with 
hands  joined  in  attitude  of  prayer,  drowned  in  an  ecstasy  of 
mystic  love." 

"  You  are  so  plausible  that  you  will  end  by  making  us 
believe  in  the  fable  of  Galatea." 

"  For  my  part,  I  admit  that  I  had  always  supposed  it  non- 
sense, but  since  last  night  I  begin  to  comprehend  the  passion 
of  the  Greek  sculptor." 

"  Considering  the  pecuUar  circumstances  of  your  new  lady, 
I  presume  you  would  have  no  objection  to  presenting  us.  As 
for  me,  I  vow  that  already  I  am  dead  with  longing  to  behold 
this  paragon.  But — what  the  devil ! — one  would  say  that 
you  do  not  wish  to  introduce  us.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  It  would  be 
a  joke  indeed  if  we  should  find  you  jealous." 

"  Jealous  !  "  the  captain  hastened  to  reply.  "  Jealous — of 
men,  n.o  ;  but  yet  see  to  what  lengths  my  madness  reaches. 
Close  beside  the  image  of  this  woman  is  a  warrior,  also  of 
marble,  an  august  figure,  as  lifelike  as  herself, — her  husband, 


1^2  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

without  doubt.  Well,  then  I  I  am  going  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  jeer  at  my  folly  as  you  may, — if  I  had  not  feared 
being  taken  for  a  lunatic,  I  believe  I  should  have  broken  him 
to  pieces  a  hundred  times  over." 

A  fresh  and  yet  more  riotous  outburst  of  laughter  from  the 
officers  greeted  this  original  revelation  on  the  part  of  the 
eccentric  lover  of  the  marble  lady. 

"  We  will  take  no  refusal.     We  must  see  her,"  cried  some. 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  must  know  if  the  object  of  such  devotion  is 
as  unique  as  the  passion  itself,"  added  others. 

"  When  shall  we  come  together  to  take  a  drink  in  the 
church  where  you  lodge  ?  "  demanded  the  rest. 

"  Whenever  you  please ;  this  very  evening,  if  you  like," 
replied  the  young  captain,  regaining  his  usual  debonair 
expression,  dispelled  for  an  instant  by  that  flash  of  jealousy. 
"  By  the  way,  along  with  the  baggage  I  have  brought  as  many 
as  two  dozen  bottles  of  champagne,  genuine  champagne,  what 
was  left  over  from  a  present  given  to  our  brigadier-general, 
who,  as  you  know,  is  a  distant  relative -of  mine." 

"  Bravo  !  Bravo  I  "  shouted  the  officers  with  one  voice, 
breaking  into  gleeful  exclamations. 

"  We  will  drink  the  wine  of  our  native  land  !  " 

"  And  we  will  sing  one  of  Rorjsard's  songs  !  " 

"  And  we  will  talk  of  women,  apropos  of  the  lady  of  our 
host." 

"  And  so — good-bye  till  evening  1 " 

«  Till  evening !  " 

III. 

It  was  now  a  good  hour  since  the  peaceful  inhabitants  of 
Toledo  had  secured  with  key  and  bolt  the  massive  doors 
of  their  ancient  mansions ;  the  campana  gorda  of  the  cathe- 
dral was  ringing  curfew,  and  from  the  summit  of  the  palace, 
now  converted  into  barracks,  was  sounding  the  last  bugle- 
call  for  silence,  when  ten  or  twelve  officers,  who  had  been 


THE  KISS  ,  1^3 

gradually  assembling  in  the  Zocodover,  took  the  road  lead- 
ing thence  to  the  monastery  where  the  captain  was  lodged, 
impelled  more  by  hope  of  draining  the  promised  bottles  than 
by  eagerness  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  marvellous  piece 
of  sculpture. 

The  night  had  shut  down  dark  and  threatening ;  the  sky 
was  covered  with  leaden  clouds  ;  the  wind,  whistling  along 
the  imprisoning  channels  of  the  narrow,  tortuous  streets,  was 
shaking  the  dying  flames  of  the  shielded  lamps  before  the 
shrines,  or  making  the  iron  weather-vanes  of  the  towers  whirl 
about  with  a  shrill  creaking. 

Scarcely  had  the  officers  caught  sight  of  the  square  where 
stood  the  monastery  which  served  as  quarters  for  their  new 
friend,  than  he,  who  was  impatiently  looking  out  for  their 
arrival,  sallied  forth  to  meet  them,  and  after  the  exchange  of 
a  few  low-toned  sentences,  all  together  entered  the  church, 
within  whose  dim  enclosure  the  faint  gleam  of  a  lantern  was 
struggling  at  hopeless  odds  with  the  black  and  heavy 
shadows. 

"  Ton  my  honor !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  guests,  peering 
about  him.  "  If  this  isn't  the  last  place  in  the  world  for  a 
revel ! " 

"  True  enough !  "  said  another.  "  You  bring  us  here  to 
meet  a  lady,  and  scarcely  can  a  man  see  his  hand  before  his 
face." 

"  And  worst  of  all,  it's  so  icy  cold  that  we  might  as  well  be 
in  Siberia,"  added  a  third,  hugging  the  folds  of  his  cloak 
about  him." 

"  Patience,  gentlemen,  patience  !  "  interposed  the  host. 
"  A  little  patience  will  set  all  to  rights.  Here,  my  lad !  "  he 
continued,  addressing  one  of  his  men.  "  Hunt  us  up  a  bit 
of  fuel  and  kindle  a  rousing  bonfire  in  the  chancel." 

The  orderly,  obeying  his  captain's  directions,  commenced 
to  rain  swinging  blows  on  the  carven  stalls  of  the  choir,  and 


174  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

after  he  had  thus  collected  a  goodly  supply  of  wood,  which 
was  heaped  up  at  the  foot  of  the  chancel  steps,  he  took  the 
lantern  and  proceeded  to  make  an  auto  de  fe  of  those  frag- 
ments carved  in  richest  designs.  Among  them  might  be 
seen  here  a  portion  of  a  spiral  column,  there  the  effigy  of  a 
holy  abbot,  the  torso  of  a  woman,  or  the  misshapen  head  of 
a  griffin  peeping  through  foliage. 

In  a  few  minutes,  a  great  light  which  suddenly  streamed 
out  through  all  the  compass  of  the  church  announced  to  the 
officers  that  the  hour  for  the  carousal  had  arrived. 

The  captain,  who  did  the  honors  of  his  lodging  with  the 
same  punctiliousness  which  he  would  have  observed  in  his 
own  house,  turned  to  his  guests  and  said : 

"  We  will,  if  you  please,  pass  to  the  refreshment  room." 

His  comrades,  affecting  the  utmost  gravity,  responded  to 
the  invitation  with  absurdly  profound  bows  and  took  their 
way  to  the  chancel  preceded  by  the  lord  of  the  revel,  who, 
on  reaching  the  stone  steps,  paused  an  instant,  and  ex- 
tending his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  tomb,  said  to  them 
with  the  most  exquisite  courtesy  : 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  you  to  the  lady  of  my 
dreams.  I  am  sure  you  will  grant  that  I  have  not  exag- 
gerated her  beauty." 

The  officers  turned  their  eyes  toward  the  point  which 
their  friend  designated,  and  exclamations  of  astonishment 
broke  involuntarily  from  the  lips  of  all. 

In  the  depths  of  a  sepulchral  arch  lined  with  black  marbles, 
they  saw,  in  fact,  kneeling  before  a  prayer-stool,  with  folded 
palms  and  face  turned  toward  the  altar,  the  image  of  a 
woman  so  beautiful  that  never  did  her  equal  come  from 
sculptor's  hands,  nor  could  desire  paint  her  in  imagination 
more  supremely  lovely. 

"  In  truth,  an  angel !  "  murmured  one. 

"  A  pity  that  she  is  marble  I  "  added  another. 


THE  KISS 


I7S 


"  Well  might — illusion  though  it  be — the  neighborhood  of 
such  a  woman  suffice  to  keep  one  from  closing  eye  the 
whole  night  through." 

"  And  you  do  not  know  who  she  is  ?  "  others  of  the  group, 
contemplating  the  statue,  asked  of  the  captain,  who  stood 
smiling,  satisfied  with  his  triumph. 

"Recalling  a  little  of  the  Latin  which  I  learned  in  my 
boyhood,  I  have  been  able,  at  no  small  pains,  to  decipher 
the  inscription  on  the  stone,"  he  answered,  "  and  by  what  I 
have  managed  to  make  out,  it  is  the  tomb  of  a  Castilian 
noble,  a  famous  warrior  wdio  fought  under  the  Great  Captain. 
His  name  I  have  forgotten,  but  his  wife,  on  whom  you  look, 
is  called  Dona  Elvira  de  Castaneda,  and  by  my  hopes  of  sal- 
vation, if  the  copy  resembles  the  original,  this  should  be  the 
most  notable  woman  of  her  time." 

After  these  brief  explanations,  the  guests,  who  did  not 
lose  sight  of  the  principal  object  of  the  gathering,  proceeded 
to  uncork  some  of  the  bottles  and,  seating  themselves  around 
the  bonfire,  began  to  pass  the  wine  from  hand  to  hand. 

In  proportion  as  their  libations  became  more  copious  and 
frequent,  and  the  fumes  of  the  foaming  champagne  com- 
menced to  cloud  their  brains,  the  animation,  the  uproar  and 
the  merriment  of  the  young  Frenchmen  rose  to  such  a  pitch 
that  some  of  them  threw  the  broken  necks  of  the  empty  bottles 
at  the  granite  monks  carved  against  the  pillars,  and  others 
trolled  at  the  tops  of  their  voices  scandalous  drinking-songs, 
while  the  rest  burst  into  roars  of  laughter,  clapped  their 
hands  in  applause  or  quarrelled  among  themselves  with 
angry  words  and  oaths. 

The  captain  sat  drinking  in  silence,  like  a  man  distraught, 
without  moving  his  eyes  from  the  statue  of  Doiia  Elvira. 

Illumed  by  the  ruddy  splendor  of  the  bonfire,  and  seen 
across  the  misty  veil  which  wine  had  drawn  before  his  vision, 
the  marble  image  sometimes  seemed  to  him  to  be  changing 


1 76  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

into  an  actual  woman ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  lips  parted, 
as  if  murmuring  a  prayer,  that  her  breast  heaved  as  if  with 
stifled  sobs,  that  her  palms  were  pressed  together  with  morp 
energy,  and  finally,  that  rosy  color  crept  into  her  cheeks,  as 
if  she  were  blushing  before  that  sacrilegious  and  repugnant 
scene. 

The  officers,  noting  the  gloomy  silence  of  their  comrade, 
roused  him  from  the  trance  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and 
thrusting  a  cup  into  his  hands,  exclaimed  in  noisy  chorus : 

"  Come,  give  us  a  toast,  you,  the  only  man  that  has  failed 
of  it  to-night !  " 

The  young  host  took  the  cup,  rose  and,  lifting  it  on  high, 
turned  to  face  the  statue  of  the  warrior  kneeling  beside  Dona 
Elvira  and  said : 

"  I  drink  to  the  Emperor,  and  I  drink  to  the  success  of  his 
arms,  thanks  to  which  we  have  been  able  to  penetrate  even 
to  the  heart  of  Castile  and  to  court,  at  his  own  tomb,  the  wife 
of  a  conqueror  of  Ceriiiola." 

The  officers  drank  the  toast  with  a  storm  of  applause,  and 
the  captain,  keeping  his  balance  with  some  difficulty,  took  a 
few  steps  toward  the  sepulchre. 

"  No,"  he  continued,  always  addressing,  with  the  stupid 
smile  of  intoxication,  the  statue  of  the  warrior.  "  Don't 
suppose  that  I  have  a  grudge  against  you  for  being  my  rival. 
On  the  contrary,  old  lad,  I  admire  you  for  a  patient  husband, 
an  example  of  meekness  and  long  suffering,  and,  for  my  part, 
I  wish  to  be  generous,  too.  You  should  be  a  tippler,  since 
you  are  a  soldier,  and  it  shall  not  be  said  that  I  left  you  to 
die  of  thirst  in  the  sight  of  twenty  empty  bottles.     Drink !  " 

And  with  thesewords  he  raised  the  cup  to  his  lips  and, 
after  wetting  them  with  the  liquor  which  it  contained,  flung 
the  rest  into  the  marble  face,  bursting  into  a  boisterous 
peal  of  laughter  to  see  how  the  wine  splashed  down  over  the 
tomb  from  the  carven  beard  of  the  motionless  warrior. 


TFIE  KISS  .  177 

"  Captain,"  exclaimed  at  that  point  one  of  his  comrades 
in  a  tone  of  raillery,  "  take  heed  what  you  do.  Bear  in 
mind  that  these  jests  with  the  stone  people  are  apt  to  cost 
dear.  Remember  what  happened  to  the  Fifth  Hussars  in 
the  monastery  of  Poblet.  The  story  goes  that  the  warriors  of 
the  cloister  laid  hand  to  their  granite  swords  one  night  and 
gave  plenty  of  occupation  to  those  merry  fellows  who  had 
amused  themselves  by  adorning  them  with  charcoal  mus- 
taches." 

The  young  revellers  received  this  report  with  roars  of 
laughter,  but  the  captain,  heedless  of  their  mirth,  continued, 
his  mind  fixed  ever  on  the  same  idea. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  would  have  given  him  the  wine,  had 
I  not  known  that  he  would  swallow  at  least  as  much  as  fell 
upon  his  mouth  ?  Oh,  no  !  I  do  not  l^elieve  like  you  that 
these  statues  are  mere  blocks  of  marble  as  inert  to-day  as 
when  hewed  from  the  quarry.  Undoubtedly  the  artist,  who 
is*aTways  a  god,  gives  to  his  work  a  breath  of  life  which  is 
not  powerful  enough  to  make  the  figure  move  and  walk,  but 
which  inspires  it  with  a  strange,  incomprehensible  life,  a  life 
which  I  do  not  fully  explain  to  myself,  but  which  I  feel, 
especially  when  I  am  a  little  drunk." 

"  Magnificent !  "  exclaimed  his  comrades.  "  Drink  and 
continue  I  " 

The  officer  drank  and,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  image  of 
Dona  Elvira,  went  on  with  mounting  excitement : 

"  Look  at  her  !  Look  at  her  1  Do  you  not  note  those 
changing  flushes  of  her  soft,  transparent  flesh  ?  Does  it 
not  seem  that  beneath  this  delicate  alabaster  skin,  azure- 
veined  and  tender,  circulates  a  fluid  of  rose-colored  light  ? 
Would  you  wish  more  life,  more  reality  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  yes,  by  all  means,"  said  one  of  those  who  was 
listening.     *'  We  would  have  her  of  flesh  and  bone." 

"  Flesh  and  bone  1     Misery  and  corruption  !  "  exclaimed 


lyS  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

the  captain.  "  I  have  felt  in  the  course  of  an  orgy  my  lips 
burn,  and  my  head.  I  have  felt  that  fire  which  runs  boiling 
through  the  veins  like  the  lava  of  a  volcano,  that  fire  whose 
dim  vapors  trouble  and  confuse  the  brain  and  conjure  up 
strange  visions.  Then  the  kiss  of  these  material  women 
burned  me  like  a  red-hot  iron,  and  I  thrust  them  from  me 
with  displeasure,  with  horror  and  with  loathing;  for  then, 
as  now,  I  needed  for  my  fevered  forehead  a  breath  of  the 
sea-breeze,  to  drink  ice  and  to  kiss  snow,  snow  tinted  by 
mellow  light,  snow  illumined  by  a  golden  ray  of  sunshine, — 
a  woman  white,  beautiful  and  cold,  like  this  woman  of  stone 
who  seems  to  allure  me  with  her  ethereal  grace,  to  sway 
like  a  flame — who  challenges  me  with  parted  lips,  offering 
me  a  wealth  of  love.  Oh,  yes,  a  kiss  I  Only  a  kiss  of  thine 
can  calm  the  fire  which  is  consuming  me." 

"  Captain  I  "  exclaimed  some  of  the  officers,  on  seeing  him 
start  toward  the  statue  as  if  beside  himself,  his  gaze  wild 
and  his  steps  reeling.  "  What  mad  foolery  would  you  com- 
mit ?     Enough  of  jesting  1     Leave  the  dead  in  peace." 

The  young  host  did  not  even  hear  the  warnings  of  his 
friends  ;  staggering,  groping  his  way,  he  reached  the  tomb 
and  approached  the  statue  of  Dona  Elvira,  but  as  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  clasp  it,  a  cry  of  horror  resounded 
through  the  temple.  With  blood  gushing  from  eyes,  mouth 
and  nostrils,  he  had  fallen  prone,  his  face  crushed  in,  at  the 
foot  of  the  sepulchre. 

The  officers,  hushed  and  terrified,  dared  not  take  one  step 
forward  to  his  aid. 

At  the  moment  when  their  comrade  strove  to  touch  his 
burning  lips  to  those  of  Dona  Elvira,  they  had  seen  the 
marble  warrior  lift  its  hand  and,  with  a  frightful  blow  of  the 
Stone  gauntlet,  strike  him  down. 


THE  SPIRITS*  MOUNTAIN 

On  All  Souls'  Night  I  was  awakened,  I  knew  not  at  what 
hour,  by  the  tolling  of  bells ;  their  monotonous,  unceasing 
sound  brought  to  mind  this  tradition  which  I  heard  a  short 
time  ago  in  Soria. 

I  tried  to  sleep  again.  Impossible  !  The  imagination, 
once  roused,  is  a  horse  that  runs  wild  and  cannot  be  reined 
in.  To  pass  the  time,  I  decided  to  write  the  story  out,  and 
so  in  fact  I  did. 

I  had  heard  it  in  the  very  place  where  it  originated  and, 
as  I  wrote,  I  sometimes  glanced  behind  me  with  sudden 
fear,  when,  smitten  by  the  cold  night  air,  the  glass  of  my 
balcony  crackled. 

Make  of  it  what  you  will, — here  it  goes  loose,  like  the 
mounted  horseman  in  a  Spanish  pack  of  cards. 

I. 

"  Leash  the  dogs !  Blow  the  horns  to  call  the  hunters 
together,  and  let  us  return  to  the  city.  Night  is  at  hand, — 
the  Night  of  All  Souls,  and  we  are  on  the  Spirits'  Mountain." 

"  So  soon  1  " 

"  Were  it  any  day  but  this,  I  would  not  give  up  till  I  had 
made  an  end  of  that  pack  of  wolves  which  the  snows  of  the 
Moncayo  have  driven  from  their  dens ;  but  to-day  it  is 
impossible.  Very  soon  the  Angelus  will  sound  in  the 
monastery  of  the  Knights  Templars,  and  the  souls  of  the 
dead  will  commence  to  toll  their  bell  in  the  chajpel  on  the 
mountain." 

"  In  that  ruined  chapel  I  Bah !  Would  you  frighten  me  ?  " 
179 


1 82  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

of  the  flames.  Alonso  watched  the  reflection  of  the  fire 
sparkling  in  the  blue  eyes  of  Beatriz. 

Both  maintained  for  some  time  an  unbroken  silence. 

The  duennas  were  telling  gruesome  stories,  appropriate' 
to  the  Night  of  All  Souls, — stories  in  which  ghosts  and 
spectres  played  the  principal  roles,  and  the  church  bells  of 
Soria  were  tolling  in  the  distance  with  a  monotonous  and 
mournful  sound. 

"  Fair  cousin,"  finally  exclaimed  Alonso,  breaking  the 
long  silence  between  them.  "  Soon  we  are  to  separate,  per- 
haps forever.  I  know  you  do  not  like  the  arid  plains  of 
Castile,  its  rough,  soldier  customs,  its  simple,  patriarchal 
ways.  At  various  times  I  have  heard  you  sigh,  perhaps  for 
some  lover  in  your  far-away  demesne." 

Beatriz  made  a  gesture  of  cold  indifference;  the  whole 
character  of  the  woman  was  revealed  in  that  disdainful  con- 
traction of  her  delicate  lips. 

"  Or  perhaps  for  the  grandeur  and  gaiety  of  the  French 
capital,  where  you  have  lived  hitherto,"  the  young  man 
hastened  to  add.  "  In  one  way  or  another,  I  foresee  that 
I  shall  lose  you  before  long.  When  we  part,  I  would  like 
to  have  you  carry  hence  a  remembrance  of  me.  Do  you 
recollect  the  time  when  we  went  to  church  to  give  thanks  to 
God  for  having  granted  you  that  restoration  to  health  which 
was  your  object  in  coming  to  this  region  ?  The  jewel 
that  fastened  the  plume  of  my  cap  attracted  your  attention. 
How  well  it  would  look  clasping  a  veil  over  your  dark  hair  1 
It  has  already  been  the  adornment  of  a  bride.  My  father 
gave  it  to  my  mother,  and  she  wore  it  to  the  altar.  Would 
you  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  how  it  may  be  in  your  part  of  the  country," 
replied  the  beauty,  "  but  in  mine  to  accept  a  gift  is  to  incur 
an  obligation.     Only  on  a  holy  day  may  one  receive  a  present 


A  MOUNTAIN    PASS 


OF  TH£ 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


TBE  SPIRITS'  MOUNTAIN  183 

from  a  kinsman, — though  he  may  go  to  Rome  without  return- 
ing empty-handed." 

The  frigid  tone  in  which  Beatriz  spoke  these  words 
troubled  the  youth  for  a  moment,  but,  clearing  his  brow,  he 
replied  sadly : 

"  I  know  it,  cousin,  but  to-day  is  the  festival  of  All  Saints, 
and  yours  among  them, — a  holiday  on  which  gifts  are  fitting. 
Will  you  accept  mine  ?  " 

Beatriz  slightly  bit  her  lip  and  put  out  her  hand  for  the 
jewel,  without  a  word. 

The  two  again  fell  silent  and  again  heard  the  quavering 
voices  of  the  old  women  telling  of  witches  and  hobgoblins, 
the  whistling  wind  which  shook  the  ogive  windows,  and  the 
mournful,  monotonous  tolling  of  the  bells. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  little  time,  the  interrupted  dialogue 
was  thus  renewed  : 

"  And  before  All  Saints'  Day  ends,  which  is  holy  to  my 
saint  as  well  as  to  yours,  so  that  you  can,  without  com- 
promising yourself,  give  me  a  keepsake,  will  you  not  do  so  ?  '* 
pleaded  Alonso,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  cousin's,  which  flashed 
like  lightning,  gleaming  with  a  diabolical  thought. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  exclaimed,  raising  her  hand  to  her  right 
shoulder  as  though  seeking  for  something  amid  the  folds  of 
her  wide  velvet  sleeve  embroidered  with  gold.  Then,  with 
an  innocent  air  of  disappointment,  she  added : 

"  Do  you  recollect  the  blue  scarf  I  wore  to-day  to  the 
hunt, — the  scarf  which  you  said,  because  of  something  about 
the  meaning  of  its  color,  was  the  emblem  of  your  soul  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

f'  Well  1  it  is  lost !  it  is  lost,  and  I  was  thinking  of  letting 
you  have  it  for  a  souvenir." 

"  Lost  1  where  ?  "  asked  Alonso,  rising  from  his  seat  with 
an  indescribable  expression  of.  mingled  fear  and  hope. 

"  I  do  not  know, — perhaps  on  the  mountain."  v 


i84  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

"  On  the  Spirits'  Mountain  I"  he  murmured,  paHng  and 
sinking  back  into  his  seat.     "  On  the  Spirits'  Mountain  !  " 

Then  he  went  on  in  a  voice  choked  and  broken : 

"  You  know,  for  you  have  heard  it  a  thousand  times,  that 
I  am  called  in  the  city,  in  all  Castile,  the  king  of  the  hunters. 
Not  having  yet  had  a  chance  to  try,  like  my  ancestors,  my 
strength  in  battle,  I  have  brought  to  bear  on  this  pastime, 
the  image  of  war,  all  the  energy  of  my  youth,  all  the  hered- 
itary ardor  of  my  race.  The  rugs  your  feet  tread  on  are 
the  spoils  of  the  chase,  the  hides  of  the  wild  beasts  I  have 
killed  with  my  own  hand.  I  know  their  haunts  and  their 
habits ;  I  have  fought  them  by  day  and  by  night,  on  foot 
and  on  horseback,  alone  and  with  hunting-parties,  and  there 
is  not  a  man  will  say  that  he  has  ever  seen  me  shrink  from 
danger.  On  any  other  night  I  would  fly  for  that  scarf, — 
fly  as  joyously  as  to  a  festival ;  but  to-night,  this  one  night — 
why  disguise  it  ? — I  am  afraid.  Do  you  hear  ?  The  bells 
are  tolling,  the  Angelus  has  sounded  in  San  Juan  del  Duero, 
the  ghosts  of  the  mountain  are  now  beginning  to  lift  their 
yellowing  skulls  from  amid  the  brambles  that  cover  their 
graves — the  ghosts !  the  mere  sight  of  them  is  enough  to 
curdle  with  horror  the  blood  of  the  bravest,  turn  his  hair 
white,  or  sweep  him  away  in  the  stormy  whirl  of  their  fan- 
tastic chase  as  a  leaf,  unwitting  whither,  is  carried  by  the 
wind." 

While  the  young  man  was  speaking,  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible smile  curled  the  lips  of  Beatriz,  who,  when  he  had 
ceased,  exclaimed  in  an  indifferent  tone,  while  she  was 
stirring  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  where  the  wood  blazed  and 
snapped,  throwing  off  sparks  of  a  thousand  colors : 

"  Oh,  by  no  means !  What  folly  1  To  go  to  the  mountain 
at  this  hour  for  such  a  trifle  1  On  so  dark  a  night,  too, 
with  ghosts  abroad,  and  the  road  beset  by  wolves !  " 

As  she  spoke  this  closing  phrase,  she  emphasized  it  with 


THE  SPI KITS'  MOUNTAIN  185 

SO  peculiar  an  intonation  that  Alonso  could  not  fail  to 
understand  all  her  bitter  irony.  As  moved  by  a  spring,  he 
leapt  to  his  feet,  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow  as  if  to  dis- 
pel the  fear  which  was  in  his  brain,  not  in  his  breast,  and 
with  firm  voice  he  said,  addressing  his  beautiful  cousin,  who 
was  still  leaning  over  the  hearth,  amusing  herself  by  stirring 
the  fire : 

"  Farewell,  Beatriz,  farewell.     If  I  return,  it  will  be  soon." 

"  Alonso,  Alonso  I  "  she  called,  turning  quickly,  but  now 
that  she  wished — or  made  show  of  wishing — to  detain  him, 
the  youth  had  gone. 

In  a  few  moments  she  heard  the  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
departing  at  a  gallop.  The  beauty,  with  a  radiant  expres- 
sion of  satisfied  pride  flushing  her  cheeks,  listened  attentively 
to  the  sound  which  grew  fainter  and  fainter  until  it  died 
away. 

The  old  dames,  meanwhile,  were  continuing  their  tales  of 
ghostly  apparitions ;  the  wind  was  shrilling  against  the 
balcony  glass,  and  far  away  the  bells  of  the  city  tolled  on. 


Ill 

An  hour  had  passed,  two,  three  ;  midnight  would  soon  be 
striking,  and  Beatriz  withdrew  to  her  chamber.  Alonso 
had  not  returned  ;  he  had  not  returned,  though  less  than  an 
hour  would  have  sufficed  for  his  errand. 

"  He  must  have  been  afraid  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  closing 
her  prayer-book  and  turning  toward  her  bed  after  a  vain 
attempt  to  murmur  some  of  the  prayers  that  the  church 
offers  for  the  dead  on  the  Day  of  All  Souls. 

After  putting  out  her  light  and  drawing  the  double  silken 
curtains,  she  fell  asleep ;  but  her  sleep  was  restless,  light, 
uneasy. 

The  Postigo  clock  struck  midnight.     Beatriz  heard  through 


1 86  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

her  dreams  the  slow,  dull,  melancholy  strokes,  and  half 
opened  her  eyes.  She  thought  she  had  heard,  at  the  same 
time,  her  name  spoken,  but  far,  far  away,  and  in  a  faint, 
suffering  voice.     The  wind  groaned  outside  her  window. 

"  It  must  have  been  the  wind,"  she  said,  and  pressing  her 
hand  above  her  heart,  she  strove  to  calm  herself.  But  her 
heart  beat  ever  more  wildly.  The  larchwood  doors  of  the 
chamber  grated  on  their  hinges  with  a  sharp  creak,  pro- 
longed and  strident. 

First  these  doors,  then  the  more  distant  ones, — all  the 
doors  which  led  to  her  room  opened,  one  after  another,  some 
with  a  heavy,  groaning  sound,  some  with  a  long  wail  that 
set  the  nerves  on  edge.  Then  silence,  a  silence  full  of 
strange  noises,  the  silence  of  midnight,  with  a  monotonous 
murmur  of  far-off  water,  the  distant  barking  of  dogs,  con- 
fused voices,  unintelligible  words,  echoes  of  footsteps  going 
and  coming,  the  rustle  of  trailing  garments,  half-suppressed 
sighs,  labored  breathing  almost  felt  upon  the  face,  in- 
voluntary shudders  that  announce  the  presence  of  something 
not  seen,  though  its  approach  is  felt  in  the  darkness. 

Beatriz,  stiffening  with  fear,  yet  trembling,  thrust  her  head 
out  from  the  bed-curtains  and  listened  a  moment.  She 
heard  a  thousand  diverse  noises;  she  passed  her  hand 
across  her  brow  and  listened  again  ;  nothing,  silence. 

She  saw,  with  that  dilation  of  the  pupils  common  in  nerv- 
ous crises,  dim  shapes  moving  hither  and  thither  all  about 
the  room,  but  when  she  fixed  her  gaze  on  any  one  point, 
there  was  nothing  but  darkness  and  impenetrable  shadows. 

"  Bah  1  "  she  exclaimed,  again  resting  her  beautiful  head 
upon  her  blue  satin  pillow,  "  am  I  as  timid  as  these  poor 
kinsfolk  of  mine,  whose  hearts  thump  with  terror  under  their 
armor  when  they  hear  a  ghost-story  ?  " 

And  closing  her  eyes  she  tried  to  sleep, — but  her  effort  to 
compose  herself  was  in  vain.     Soon  she  started  up  again, 


THE  SPIRITS'  MOUNTAIN  ,87 

paler,  more  uneasy,  more  terrified.  This  time  it  was  no 
illusion ;  the  brocade  hangings  of  the  door  had  rustled  as 
they  were  pushed  to  either  side,  and  slow  footsteps  were 
heard  upon  the  carpet ;  the  sound  of  those  footsteps  was 
muffled,  almost  imperceptible,  but  continuous,  and  she  heard, 
keeping  measure  with  them,  a  creaking  as  of  dry  wood  or 
bones.  And  the  footfalls  came  nearer,  nearer ;  the  prayer- 
stool  by  the  side  of  her  bed  moved.  Beatriz  uttered  a  sharp 
cry,  and  burying  herself  under  the  bedclothes,  hid  her  head 
and  held  her  breath. 

The  wind  beat  against  the  balcony  glass ;  the  water  of 
the  far-off  fountain  was  falling,  falling,  with  a  monotonous, 
unceasing  sound  ;  the  barking  of  the  dogs  was  borne  upon 
the  gusts,  and  the  church  bells  in  the  city  of  Soria,  some 
near,  some  remote,  tolled  sadly  for  the  souls  of  the  dead. 

So  passed  an  hour,  two,  the  night,  a  century,  for  that 
night  seemed  to  Beatrix  eternal.  At  last  the  day  began  to 
break ;  putting  fear  from  her,  she  half  opened  her  eyes  to 
the  first  silver  rays.  How  beautiful,  after  a  night  of  wake- 
fulness and  terrors,  is  the  clear  white  light  of  dawn  I  She 
parted  the  silken  curtains  of  her  bed  and  was  ready  to  laugh 
at  her  past  alarms,  when  suddenly  a  cold  sweat  covered  her 
body,  her  eyes  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets,  and  a 
deadly  pallor  overspread  her  cheeks ;  for  on  her  prayer- 
stool  she  had  seen,  torn  and  blood-stained,  the  blue  scarf 
she  lost  on  the  mountain,  the  blue  scarf  Alonso  went  to  seek. 

When  her  attendants  rushed  in,  aghast,  to  tell  her  of  the 
death  of  the  heir  of  Alcudiel,  whose  body,  partly  devoured 
by  wolves,  had  been  found  that  morning  among  the  bram- 
bles on  the  Spirits'  Mountain,  they  discovered  her  motionless, 
convulsed,  clinging  with  both  hands  to  one  of  the  ebony  bed- 
posts, her  eyes  staring,  her  mouth  open,  the  lips  white,  her 
limbs  rigid, — dead,  dead  of  fright ! 


1 88  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

IV. 

They  say  that,  some  time  after  this  event,  a  hunter  who, 
having  lost  his  way,  had  been  obliged  to  pass  the  Night  of 
the  Dead  on  the  Spirits'  Mountain,  and  who  in  the  morning, 
before  he  died,  was  able  to  relate  what  he  had  seen,  told  a 
tale  of  horror.  Among  other  awful  sights,  he  avowed  he 
beheld  the  skeletons  of  the  ancient  Knights  Templars  and 
of  the  nobles  of  Soria,  buried  in  the  cloister  of  the  chapel, 
rise  at  the  hour  of  the  Angelus  with  a  horrible  rattle  and, 
mounted  on  their  bony  steeds,  chase,  as  a  wild  beast,  a 
beautiful  woman,  pallid,  with  streaming  hair,  who,  uttering 
cries  of  terror  and  anguish,  had  been  wandering,  with  bare 
and  bloody  feet,  about  the  tomb  of  Alonso. 


THE    CAVE     OF    THE    MOOR'S 
DAUGHTER 

I. 

Opposite  the  Baths  of  Fitero,  on  a  rocky,  precipitous 
eminence,  at  whose  base  flows  the  river  Alhama,  there  may- 
be seen  to  this  day  the  abandoned  ruins  of  a  Moorish  castle 
celebrated  in  the  glorious  memories  of  the  Reconquest  as 
having  been  the  theatre  of  great  and  famous  exploits,  as 
well  on  the  part  of  the  defenders  as  of  those  who  valiantly 
nailed  to  its  parapets  the  standard  of  the  Cross. 

Of  the  walls  there  remain  only  some  scattered  ruins  ;  the 
stones  of  the  watch-tower  have  fallen  one  above  another 
into  the  moat,  filling  it  to  the  top ;  in  the  court-of-arms  grow 
briers  and  patches  of  yellow  mustard  ;  in  whatever  direction 
you  look,  you  see  only  broken  arches,  blackened  and  crum- 
bling blocks  of  stone ;  here  a  section  of  the  barbican  in  whose 
fissures  springs  the  ivy,  there  a  round  tower,  standing  yet, 
as  by  a  miracle  ;  further  on,  pillars  of  cement  with  the  iron 
rings  which  supported  the  drawbridge. 

During  my  stay  at  the  Baths,  partly  for  exercise,  which  I 
was  assured  would  be  conducive  to  my  health,  and  partly 
from  curiosity,  I  strolled  every  afternoon  along  the  rough 
path  that  leads  to  the  ruins  of  the  Arab  fortress.  There  I 
passed  hours  and  hours,  closely  scanning  the  ground  in  the 
hope  of  discovering  some  fragments  of  armor,  beating  the 
walls  to  find  out  whether  they  were  hollow  and  might  be  the 
hiding  place  of  treasure,  and  investigating  all  the  nooks  and 
crannies  with  the  idea  of  hitting  upon  the  entrance  to  some 
of  those  underground  cells  which  are  believed  to  exist  in  all 
Moorish  castles. 

189 


IQO  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

My  diligent  search  was,  after  all,  a  fruitless  one. 

But  yet,  one  afternoon,  when  I  had  quite  despaired  of 
discovering  anything  new  and  curious  on  the  rocky  height 
crowned  by  the  castle  and  had  given  up  the  climb,  Hmiting 
my  walk  to  the  banks  of  the  river  which  flows  by  its  foot,  I 
saw,  as  I  walked  along  by  the  stream,  a  sort  of  gaping  hole  in 
the  living  rock,  half  hidden  by  thickly-leaved  bushes.  Not 
without  a  little  tremor,  I  parted  the  branches  covering  the  en- 
trance to  what  seemed  a  natural  cave,  but  what  I  perceived, 
after  advancing  a  few  steps,  was  a  subterranean  vault  narrow- 
ing to  the  mouth.  Not  being  able  to  penetrate  to  the  end, 
which  was  lost  in  darkness,  I  confined  myself  to  observing 
attentively  the  peculiarities  of  the  arch  and  of  the  pavement 
that  appeared  to  me  to  rise  in  great  stairs  toward  the  height 
on  which  stood  the  castle  I  have  mentioned,  and  in  whose 
ruins  I  then  remembered  having  seen  a  closed-up  trap  door. 
Doubtless  I  had  discovered  one  of  those  secret  passages  so 
common  in  the  fortifications  of  that  epoch,  serving  for  covert 
sallies,  or  for  bringing,  in  state  of  siege,  water  from  the  river 
which  flows  hard  by. 

That  I  might  be  more  sure  of  the  truth  of  my  inferences, 
after  I  had  come  out  from  the  cave  by  the  same  way  in  which 
I  had  entered,  I  fell  into  conversation  with  a  workman  who 
was  pruning  some  vines  in  that  rough  region  and  whom  I 
accosted  under  pretence  of  asking  a  light  for  my  cigarette. 

We  talked  of  various  matters :  the  medicinal  properties 
of  the  waters  of  Fitero ;  the  last  harvest  and  the  next ;  the 
women  of  Navarre  and  the  cultivation  of  vines ;  indeed,  we 
talked  of  everything  which  occurred  to  the  sociable  body 
before  we  spoke  of  the  cave,  the  object  of  my  curiosity. 

When,  at  last,  the  conversation  had  reached  this  point,  I 
asked  him  if  he  knew  of  any  one  who  had  gone  through  it, 
and  seen  the  other  end. 

"  Gone  through  the  cave  of  the  Moor's  Daughter  I  "  he 


A    MOUNTAIN    GROTTO 


THE  CAVE  OF  THE  MOOR'S  DAUGHTER  191 

repeated,  astonished  at  hearing  such  a  question.  "  Who 
would  dare  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  from  this  cave  there 
comes  out,  every  night,  a  ghosi?  " 

"  A  ghost !  "  I  exclaimed,  smiling.     "  Whose  ghost  ?  " 
"  The  ghost  of  the  daughter  of  a  Moorish  chief,  she  who 
yet  wanders  mourning  about  these  places  and  is  seen  every 
night  coming  out  of  this  cave,  robed  in  white,  and  filling  at 
the  river  a  water-jar." 

Through  this  good  fellow  I  learned  that  there  was  a  tradi- 
tion clinging  to  this  Arab  castle  and  the  vault  which  I  believed 
to  communicate  with  it.  And  as  I  am  a  most  willing  hearer 
of  all  these  legends,  especially  from  the  lips  of  the  neighbor- 
folk,  I  begged  him  to  relate  it  to  me,  and  so  he  did,  almost 
in  the  very  words  in  which  I  in  turn  am  going  to  relate  it  to 
my  readers. 

II. 

When  the  castle,  of  which  there  remain  to-day  only  a  few 
shapeless  ruins,  was  still  held  by  the  Moorish  kings,  and  its 
towers,  not  one  stone  now  left  upon  another,  commanded  from 
their  lofty  site  all  that  most  fertile  valley  watered  by  the  river 
Alhama,  there  was  fought  near  the  town  of  Fitero  a  hotly 
contested  battle  in  which  a  famous  Christian  knight,  as 
worthy  of  renown  for  his  piety  as  for  his  valor,  fell,  wounded, 
into  the  hands  of  the  Arabs. 

Taken  to  the  fortress  and  loaded  with  irons  by  his  enemies, 
he  was  for  some  days  in  the  depths  of  a  dungeon  struggling 
between  life  and  death,  until,  healed  as  if  miraculously  of  his 
wounds,  he  was  redeemed  by  his  kindred  with  a  ransom  of 
gold. 

The  captive  returned  to  his  home, — returned  to  clasp  to 
his  breast  those  who  had  given  him  being.  His  brothers-in- 
arms and  his  men-of-war  were  overjoyed  to  see  him,  suppos- 
ing that  he  would  sound  the  call  to  new  combat,  but  the  soul 


192  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

of  the  knight  had  become  possessed  by  a  deep  melancholy, 
and  neither  the  endearments  of  parental  love  nor  the  assidu- 
ities of  friendship  could  dissipate  his  strange  gloom. 

During  his  imprisonment  he  had  managed  to  see  the 
daughter  of  the  Moorish  chief,  rumors  of  whose  beauty  had 
already  reached  his  ears.  But  when  he  beheld  her,  he  found 
her  so  superior  to  the  idea  he  had  formed  of  her  that  he 
could  not  resist  the  fascination  of  her  charms  and  fell  des- 
perately in  love  with  one  who  could  never  be  his  bride. 

Months  and  months  were  spent  by  the  knight  in  devising 
the  most  daring,  most  absurd  plans ;  now  he  would  imagine 
some  way  of  breaking  the  barriers  that  separated  him  from 
that  woman  ;  again,  he  would  make  the  utmost  efforts  to  for- 
get her ;  to-day  he  would  decide  on  one  course  of  action  and 
to-morrow  he  would  resolve  on  another  absolutely  different. 
At  last,  one  morning,  he  called  together  his  brothers  and 
companions-in-arms,  summoned  his  men-of-war,  and  after 
having  made,  with  the  greatest  secrecy,  all  necessary  prep- 
arations, fell  suddenly  upon  the  fortress  which  sheltered  the 
beautiful  being  who  was  the  object  of  his  insensate  love. 

On  setting  out  on  this  expedition,  all  believed  that  their 
commander  was  moved  only  by  eagerness  to  avenge  himself 
for  the  sufferings  he  had  endured  loaded  with  irons  in  the 
dungeon  depth,  but  after  the  fortress  was  taken,  the  true 
cause  of  that  reckless  enterprise,  in  which  so  many  good 
Christians  had  perished  to  contribute  to  the  satisfaction  of  an 
unworthy  passion,  was  hid  from  none. 

The  knight,  intoxicated  with  the  love  which  he  had  at  last 
succeeded  in  kindling  in  the  breast  of  the  beautiful  Moorish 
girl,  gave  no  heed  to  the  counsels  of  his  friends,  and  was 
deaf  to  the  murmurs  and  complaints  of  his  soldiers.  One 
and  all  were  clamoring  to  go  out  as  soon  as  possible  from 
those  walls,  upon  which  it  was  natural  that  the  Arabs,  re- 
covered from  the  panic  of  the  surprise,  would  fall  anew. 


THE  CAVE  OF  THE  MOOR'S  DAUGHTER  1^3 

And  this,  in  fact,  was  what  took  place.  The  Moorish 
chief  called  together  the  Arabs  from  all  about  ;  and,  one 
morning,  the  look-out  who  was  stationed  in  the  watch-tower 
of  the  keep  went  down  to  announce  to  the  infatuated  lovers 
that  over  all  the  mountain  range  which  was  discernible  from 
that  summit,  such  a  cloud  of  warriors  was  descending  that 
he  was  convinced  all  Mohammedanism  was  going  to  fall  upon 
the  castle. 

The  Moor's  daughter,  hearing  this,  stood  still,  pale  as 
death ;  the  knight  shouted  for  his  arms,  and  everything  was 
put  in  motion  in  the  fortress.  The  soldiers  rushed  out  tumul- 
tuously  from  their  quarters  ;  the  captains  began  to  give  orders ; 
the  portcullis  was  lowered ;  the  drawbridge  was  raised,  and 
the  battlements  were  manned  with  archers. 

After  some  hours,  the  assault  began. 

The  castle  might  well  be  called  impregnable.  Only  by 
surprise,  as  the  Christians  had  taken  it,  could  it  be  over- 
co,me.  So  its  defenders  resisted  one,  two,  and  even  ten 
onsets. 

The  Moors,  seeing  the  uselessness  of  their  efforts,  con- 
tented themselves  with  closely  surrounding  the  castle,  that 
they  mig^it  bring  its  defenders  to  capitulation  through 
famine. 

Hunger  began,  indeed,  to  make  frightful  ravages  among 
the  Christians,  but,  knowing  that  once  the  castle  was  sur- 
rendered, the  price  of  the  life  of  its  defenders  would  be  the 
head  of  their  leader,  no  one  would  betray  him,  and  the  very 
soldiers  who  had  reprobated  his  conduct  swore  to  perish  in 
his  defence. 

The  Moors,  waxing  impatient,  resolved  to  make  a  fresh 
assault  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  The  attack  was  furious  ; 
the  defence,  desperate ;  the  encounter,  horrible.  During  the 
combat,  the  Moorish  chief,  his  forehead  cleft  by  an  axe,  fell 
into  the  moat  from  the  top  of  the  wall  to  which  he  had  sue- 


1^4  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

ceeded  in  climbing  by  the  aid  of  a  scaling  ladder.  Simul- 
taneously the  knight  received  a  mortal  stroke  in  the  breach 
of  the  barbican  where  men  were  fighting  hand  to  hand  in  the 
darkness. 

The  Christians  began  to  give  way  and  fell  back.  At  this 
point,  the  Moorish  girl  bent  over  her  lover,  who  lay  in  death- 
like swoon  on  the  ground  and,  taking  him  in  her  arms, 
with  a  strength  born  of  desperation  and  the  sense  of  peril, 
she  dragged  him  to  the  castle  court.  There  she  touched 
a  spring  and  through  a  passage  disclosed  by  a  stone,  which 
rose  as  if  supernaturally  moved,  she  disappeared  with  her 
precious  burden  and  began  to  descend  until  she  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  vault. 

in. 

When  the  knight  recovered  consciousness,  he  cast  a  wan- 
dering glance  about  him,  crying :  "  I  thirst !  I  die  1  I  burn  1  " 
And  in  his  delirium,  precursor  of  death,  from  his  dry  lips, 
through  which  whistled  the  difficult  breath,  came  only  these 
words  of  agony  :  "  I  thirst !  I  burn  I  Water  I  Water  !  " 

The  Moorish  girl  knew  that  there  was  an  opening  from 
that  vault  to  the  valley  through  which  the  river  flows.  The 
valley  and  all  the  heights  which  overlook  it  were  full  of 
Moslem  soldiers,  who,  the  fortress  now  surrendered,  were 
vainly  seeking  everywhere  the  knight  and  his  beloved  to  sati- 
ate on  them  their  thirst  for  destruction  ;  yet  she  did  not  hesi- 
tate an  instant,  but  taking  the  helmet  of  the  dying  man,  she 
slipped  like  a  shadow  through  the  thicket  which  covered  the 
mouth  of  the  cave  and  went  down  to  the  river  bank. 

Already  she  had  dipped  up  the  water  and  was  rising  to 
return  to  the  side  of  her  lover,  when  an  arrow  hissed  and  a 
cry  resounded. 

Two  Arab  archers  who  were  on  watch  near  the  fortress 


THE  CAVE  OE   THE  MOOR'S  DAUGHTER  ig^ 

had  drawn  their  bows  in  the  direction  in  which  they  heard 
the  foliage  rustle. 

The  Moor's  daughter,  mortally  wounded,  yet  succeeded  in 
dragging  herself  to  the  entrance  of  the  vault  and  down  into 
its  depths  where  she  joined  the  knight.  He,  on  seeing  her 
bathed  with  blood  and  at  the  point  of  death,  recovered  his 
reason  and,  realizing  the  enormity  of  the  sin  which  demanded 
so  fearful  an  expiation,  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  took  the 
water  which  his  beloved  offered  him  and,  without  lifting  it  to 
his  lips,  asked  the  Moorish  girl :  "  Would  you  be  a  Christian  ? 
Would  you  die  in  my  faith  and,  if  I  am  saved,  be  saved  with 
me  ?  "  The  Moor's  daughter,  who  had  fallen  to  the  ground, 
faint  with  loss  of  blood,  made  a  slight  movement  of  her  head, 
and  upon  it  the  knight  poured  the  baptismal  water,  invoking 
the  name  of  the  Almighty. 

The  next  day  the  soldier  who  had  shot  the  arrow  saw  a 
trace  of  blood  on  the  river  bank  and,  following  it,  went  into 
the  cave  where  he  found  the  dead  bodies  of  the  cavalier  and 
his  beloved,  who,  ever  since,  come  out  at  night  to  wander 
through  these  parts. 


THE  GNOME 

The  young  girls  of  the  village  were  returning  from  the 
fountain  with  their  water-jars  on  their  heads;  they  were 
returning  with  song  and  laughter,  a  merry  confusion  of  sound 
comparable  only  to  the  gleeful  twitter  of  a  flock  of  swallows 
when,  thick  as  hail,  they  circle  around  the  weather-vane  of 
a  belfry. 

Just  in  front  of  the  church  porch,  seated  at  the  foot  of  a 
juniper  tree,  was  Uncle  Gregorio.  Uncle  Gregorio  was  the 
patriarch  of  the  village ;  he  was  nearly  ninety  years  old,  with 
white  hair,  smiling  lips,  roguish  eyes  and  trembling  hands. 
In  childhood  he  had  been  a  shepherd  ;  in  his  young  man- 
hood, a  soldier ;  then  he  tilled  a  little  piece  of  fruitful  land 
inherited  from  his  parents,  until  at  last  his  strength  was 
spent  and  he  sat  tranquilly  awaiting  death  which  he  neither 
dreaded  nor  longed  for.  Nobody  retailed  a  bit  of  gossip 
more  spicily  than  he,  nor  knew  more  marvellous  tales,  nor 
could  bring  so  neatly  to  bear  an  old  refrain,  proverb  or  adage. 

The  girls,  on  seeing  him,  quickened  their  steps,  eager  for 
his  talk,  and  when  they  were  in  the  porch  they  all  began  to 
tease  him  for  a  story  to  pass  away  the  time  still  left  them 
before  nightfall — not  much,  for  the  setting  sun  was  slanting 
his  rays  across  the  earth,  and  the  shadows  of  the  mountains 
grew  larger  moment  by  moment  all  along  the  plain. 

Uncle  Gregorio  smiled  as  he  listened  to  the  pleading  of 
the  lasses,  who,  having  once  coaxed  from  him  a  promise  to 
tell  them  something,  let  down  their  water-jars  upon  the 
ground,  and  sitting  all  about  him,  made  a  circle  with  the 

196 


THE  GNOME  loy 

patriarch  in  the  centre ;  then  he  began  to  talk  to  them  after 
this  fashion : 

"  I  will  not  tell  you  a  story,  for  though  several  come  into 
my  mind  this  minute,  they  have  to  do  with  such  weighty 
matters  that  the  attention  of  a  group  of  giddypates,  like  you, 
would  never  hold  out  to  the  end  ;  besides,  with  the  afternoon 
so  nearly  gone,  I  would  not  have  time  to  tell  them  through. 
So  I  will  give  you  instead  a  piece  of  good  counsel." 

"  Good  counsel !  "  exclaimed  the  girls  with  undisguised 
vexation.  "  Bah  !  it  isn't  to  hear  good  counsel  that  we  are 
stopping  here ;  when  we  have  need  of  that,  his  Reverence 
the  priest  will  give  it  to  us." 

"  But  perhaps,"  went  on  the  old  man  with  his  habitual 
smile,  speaking  in  his  broken,  tremulous  voice,  "  his  Rev- 
erence the  priest  will  not  know  how  to  give  you,  this  once, 
such  timely  advice  as  Uncle  Gregorio ;  for  the  priest,  busy 
with  his  liturgies  and  litanies,  will  not  have  noticed,  as  I 
have  noticed,  that  every  day  you  go  earlier  to  the  fountain 
and  come  back  later." 

The  girls  looked  at  one  another  with  hardly  perceptible 
smiles  of  derision,  while  some  of  those  who  were  placed 
behind  Uncle  Gregorio  touched  finger  to  forehead,  ac- 
companying the  action  with  a  significant  gesture. 

"And  what  harm  do  you  find  in  our  lingering  at  the- 
fountain  to  chat  a  minute  with  our  friends  and  neighbors  ?  " 
asked  one  of  them.  "  Do  slanders,  perhaps,  go  about  the 
village  because  the  lads  step  out  on  to  the  road  for  a  pleasant 
word  or  two,  or  come  offering  to  carry  our  water-jars  till  we 
are  in  sight  of  the  houses  ?  " 

"  Ay,  people  talk,"  replied  the  old  man  to  the  girl  who 
had  asked  him  the  question  for  them  all.  "  The  old  dames 
of  the  village  murmur  that  to-day  the  girls  resort  for  fun  and 
frolic  to  a  spot  whither  they  used  to  go  swiftly  and  in  fear 
to  draw  the  water,  since  only  there  can  water  be  had  ;  and 


198  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

I  find  it  much  amiss  that  you  are  losing  little  by  little  the 
^  dread  which  the  vicinity  of  the  fountain  inspires  in  all  your 
elders, — for  so  it  might  come  to  pass  that  some  time  the 
night  should  overtake  you  there." 

Uncle  Gregorio  spoke  these  last  words  in  a  tone  so  full 
of  mystery  that  the  lasses  opened  wide  their  frightened  eyes 
to  look  at  him,  and  with  blended  curiosity  and  mischief, 
again  pressed  their  questions  : 

"  The  night  1  But  what  goes  on  in  that  place  by  night 
that  you  should  scare  us  so  and  throw  out  such  dark  and 
dreadful  hints  of  what  might  befall  ?  Do  you  think  the 
wolves  will  eat  us  ?  " 

"  When  the  Moncayo  is  covered  with  snow,  the  wolves, 
driven  from  their  dens,  come  down  in  packs  and  range  over 
its  slope ;  more  than  once  we  have  heard  them  howling  in 
horrible  concert,  not  only  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  fountain, 
but  in  the  very  streets  of  the  village ;  yet  the  wolves  are 
not  the  most  terrible  tenants  of  the  Moncayo ;  in  its  deep 
and  dark  caverns,  on  its  wild  and  lonely  summits,  in  its 
hollow  heart  there  live  certain  diabolical  spirits  that,  during 
the  night,  pour  down  its  cascades  in  swarms  and  people  the 
empty  spaces,  thronging  like  ants  upon  the  plain,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock,  sporting  in  the  waters  and  swinging  on 
the  bare  boughs  of  the  trees.  It  is  these  spirits  that  cry 
from  the  clefts  of  the  crags,  that  roll  up  and  push  along 
those  immense  snowballs  which  come  rolling  down  from  the 
lofty  peaks  and  sweep  away  and  crush  whatever  they  find 
in  their  path, — theirs  are  the  voices  calling  in  the  hail  at 
our  windows  on  stormy  nights, — theirs  the  forms  that  flit 
like  thin,  blue  flames  over  the  marshes.  Among  these 
spirits — who,  driven  from  the  lowlands  by  the  sacred  services 
and  exorcisms  of  the  Church,  have  taken  refuge  on  the  in- 
accessible crests  of  the  mountains, — are  those  of  diverse 
natures,  that  on  appearing  to  our  eyes  clothe  themselves  in 


iO  \ 

3HJ.  iO    ^ 


THE  GNOME  l^^ 

varied  forms.  Yet  the  most  dangerous,  those  who  with 
sweet  words  win  their  way  into  the  hearts  of  maidens  and 
dazzle  them  with  magnificent  promises,  are  the  gnomes. 
The  gnomes  Hve  in  the  inner  recesses  of  the  mountains ; 
they  know  their  subterranean  roads  aad,  eternal  guardians 
of  the  treasures  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  hills,  they  keep 
watch  day  and  night  over  the  veins  of  metal  and  the  precious 
stones.  Do  you  see — "  continued  the  old  man,  pointing 
with  the  stick  which  served  him  for  a  prop  to  the  summit 
of  the  Moncayo,  that  rose  at  his  right,  looming  dark  and 
gigantic  against  the  misted,  violet  sky  of  twilight — "  do  you 
see  that  mighty  mass  still  crowned  with  snow  ?  In  its  deep 
cavities  these  diabolical  spirits  have  their  dwellings.  The 
palace  they  inhabit  is  terrible  and  glorious  to  see.  Many 
years  ago  a  shepherd,  following  some  stray  of  his  flock, 
penetrated  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  those  caves  whose 
entrances  are  covered  by  thick  growths  of  bushes  and  whose 
outlets  no  man  has  ever  seen.  When  he  came  back  to  the 
village,  he  was  pale  as  death ;  he  had  surprised  the  secret 
of  the  gnomes  ;  he  had  breathed  their  poisonous  atmosphere, 
and  he  paid  for  his  rashness  with  his  life  ;  but  before  he  died 
he  related  marvellous  things.  Going  on  along  that  cavern, 
he  had  come  at  last  to  vast  subterranean  galleries  lighted  by 
a  fitful,  fantastic  splendor  shed  from  the  phosphorescence 
in  the  rocks,  which  there  were  like  great  boulders  of  quartz 
crystallized  into  a  thousand  strange,  fantastic  forms.  The 
floor,  the  vaulted  ceiling  and  the  walls  of  those  immense 
halls,  the  work  of  nature,  seemed  variegated  like  the  richest 
marbles  ;  but  the  veins  w^hich  crossed  them  were  of  gold 
and  silver,  and  among  those  shining  veins,  as  if  incrusted  in 
the  rock,  were  seen  jewels,  a  multitude  of  precious  stones  of 
all  colors  and  sizes.  There  were  jacinths  and  emeralds  in 
heaps,  and  diamonds  and  rubies,  and  sapphires  and — how 
should   I   know  ? — many    other    gems    unrecognized — more 


200  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

than  he  could  name  but  all  so  great  and  beautiful  that  his 
eyes  dazzled  at  the  sight.  No  noise  of  the  outer  world 
reached  the  depths  of  that  weird  cavern ;  the  only  per- 
ceptible sounds  were,  at  intervals,  the  prolonged  and  pitiful 
groans  of  the  air  which  blew  through  that  enchanted  laby- 
rinth, a  vague  roar  of  subterranean  fire  furious  in  its  prison, 
and  murmurs  of  running  water  which  flowed  on  not  knowing 
whither  they  went.  The  shepherd,  alone  and  lost  in  that 
immensity,  wandered  I  know  not  how  many  hours  without 
finding  any  outlet,  until  at  last  he  chanced  upon  the  source 
of  a  spring  whose  murmur  he  had  heard.  This  broke  from 
the  ground  like  a  miraculous  fountain,  a  leap  of  foam-crowned 
water  that  fell  in  an  exquisite  cascade,  singing  a  silver  song 
as  it  slipped  away  through  the  crannies  of  the  rocks.  About 
him  grew  plants  that  he  had  never  seen,  some  with  wide, 
thick  leaves,  and  others  delicate  and  long  like  floating  rib- 
bons. Half  hidden  in  that  humid  foliage  were  running 
about  a  number  of  extraordinary  creatures,  some  of  them 
manlike,  some  reptilian,  or  both  at  once,  changing  shape 
continually,  at  one  moment  appearing  like  human  beings, 
deformed  and  tiny,  the  next  like  gleaming  salamanders  or 
fugitive  flames  that  danced  in  circles  above  the  tip  of  the 
fountain-jet.  There,  darting  in  all  directions,  running  across 
the  floor  in  form  of  repugnant,  hunchbacked  dwarfs,  scram- 
bling up  the  walls,  wriggling  along,  reptile-shaped,  in  their 
slime,  dancing  like  Will-o-the-wisps  on  the  pool  of  water, 
went  the  gnomes,  the  lords  of  those  recesses,  counting  over 
and  shifting  from  place  to  place  their  fabulous  riches. 
They  know  where  misers  store  those  treasures  which,  after- 
wards, the  heirs  seek  in  vain ;  they  know  the  spot  where 
the  Moors,  before  their  flight,  hid  their  jewels;  and  the 
ornaments  which  are  lost,  the  money  that  is  missing,  every- 
thing that  has  value  and  disappears,  they  search  for,  find 
and  steal,  to  hide  in  their  caves,  for  they  know  how  to  go 


THE  GNOME  201 

to  and  fro  through  all  the  world  by  secret,  unimagined  paths 
beneath  the  earth.  So  there  they  were  keeping  stored  up  in 
heaps  all  manner  of  rare  and  precious  things.  There  were 
jewels  of  inestimable  worth ;  chains  and  necklaces  of  pearls 
and  exquisite  gems ;  golden  jars  of  classic  form,  full  of  rubies ; 
chiseled  cups,  armor  richly  wrought,  coins  with  images  and 
superscriptions  that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  recognize  or 
decipher ;  treasures,  in  short,  so  fabulous  and  limitless  that 
scarcely  may  imagination  picture  them.  And  all  glittered 
together,  flashing  out  such  vivid  sparks  of  light  and  color 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  hoard  were  on  fire,  quivering 
and  wavering.  At  least,  the  shepherd  said  that  so  it  had 
seemed  to  him."  At  this  point  the  old  patriarch  paused  a 
moment.  The  girls,  who  in  the  beginning  had  hearkened 
to  Uncle  Gregorio's  story  with  a  mocking  smile,  now  main- 
tained unbroken  silence,  hoping  that  he  would  go  on, — wait- 
ing with  frightened  eyes,  with  lips  slightly  parted,  and  with 
curiosity  and  interest  depicted  on  their  faces.  One  of  them 
finally  broke  the  hush,  and  unable  to  control  herself,  ex- 
claimed, fascinated  with  the  account  of  the  fabulous  riches 
which  had  met  the  shepherd's  view  : 

"  And  what  then  ?  Did  he  take  away  nothing  out  of  all 
that  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Uncle  Gregorio. 

"  What  a  silly  !  "  the  girls  exclaimed  in  concert. 

"  Heaven  helped  him  in  that  moment  of  peril,"  continued 
the  old  man,  "  for  at  the  very  instant  when  avarice,  the 
ruling  passion,  began  to  dispel  his  fear  and,  bewitched  by  the 
sight  of  those  jewels,  one  alone  of  which  would  have  made 
him  wealthy,  the  shepherd  was  about  to  possess  himself  of 
some  small  share  of  that  treasure,  he  says  he  heard — listen 
and  marvel — clear  and  distinct  in  those  profound  abodes, — 
despite  the  shouts  of  laughter  and  harsh  voices  of  the  gnomes, 
the  roar   of  the  subterranean  fire,  the  murmur  of  running 


202  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

water  and  the  laments  of  the  imprisoned  air,  he  heard,  I  say, 
as  if  he  had  been  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  it  stands,  the 
pealing  of  the  bell  in  the  hermitage  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Moncayo. 

"  On  hearing  the  bell,  which  was  ringing  the  Ave  Maria^ 
the  shepherd  fell  to  his  knees,  calling  on  the  Mother  of  Our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ ;  and  instantly,  without  knowing  the 
means  nor  the  way,  he  found  himself  on  the  outside  of  the 
mountain,  near  the  road  which  leads  to  the  village,  thrown 
out  on  a  footpath  and  overwhelmed  by  a  great  bewilder- 
ment as  if  he  had  just  been  startled  out  of  a  dream. 

"  Since  then  everybody  has  understood  why  our  village 
fountain  sometimes  has  in  its  waters  a  glint  as  of  very  fine 
gold-dust ;  and  when  night  falls,  vague  words  are  heard 
in  its  murmur,  flattering  words  with  which  the  gnomes, 
that  defile  it  from  its  source,  try  to  entice  the  foolhardy  who 
lend  them  ear,  promising  them  riches  and  treasures  that  are 
bound  to  be  the  destruction  of  their  souls." 

When  Uncle  Gregorio  had  reached  this  point  in  his  re- 
lation, night  had  fallen  and  the  church  bell  commenced  to 
call  to  prayer.  The  girls  crossed  themselves  devoutly, 
repeating  in  low  voices  an  Ave  Maria,  and  after  bidding 
good-night  to  Uncle  Gregorio,  who  again  counselled  them 
not  to  tarry  at  the  fountain,  each  picked  up  her  water-jar 
and  all  went  forth,  silent  and  musing,  from  the  churchyard. 
They  were  already  far  from  the  spot  where  they  had  found 
the  old  man,  and  had,  indeed,  reached  the  central  square  of 
the  village  whence  they  were  to  go  their  several  ways,  before 
the  more  resolute  and  decided  of  them  all  broke  out  with 
the  question  : 

"  Do  you  girls  believe  any  of  that  nonsense  Uncle  Gregorio 
has  been  telling  us  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  said  one. 

"  Nor  I,"  exclaimed  another. 


THE  GNOME  203 

"  Nor  I !  nor  1 1  "  chimed  in  the  rest,  laughing  at  their 
momentary  credulity. 

The  group  of  lasses  melted  away,  each  taking  her  course 
toward  one  or  another  side  of  the  square.  Last  of  all,  when 
the  others  had  disappeared  down  the  better  streets  that  led 
out  from  this  market-place,  two  girls,  the  only  ones  who  had 
not  opened  their  lips  to  make  fun  of  Uncle  Gregorio's 
veracity,  but  who,  still  musing  on  the  marvellous  tale,  seemed 
absorbed  in  their  own  meditations,  went  away  together,  with 
the  slow  step  natural  to  people  deep  in  thought,  by  a  dismal, 
narrow,  crooked  alley. 

Of  those  two  girls,  the  elder,  who  seemed  to  be  some 
twenty  years  old,  was  called  Marta ;  and  the  younger,  who 
had  not  yet  finished  her  sixteenth  year,  Magdalena. 

As  long  as  the  walk  lasted,  both  kept  complete  silence  ; 
but  when  they  reached  the  threshold  of  their  home  and  had 
set  down  their  water-jars  on  the  stone  bench  by  the  door, 
Marta  said  to  Magdalena  :  *•  And  do  you  believe  in  the 
marvels  of  the  Moncayo  and  the  spirits  of  the  fountain  ? " 
"  Yes,"  answered  Magdalena  simply,  "  I  believe  it  all.  But 
you,  perhaps,  have  doubts  ?  "  "  Oh,  no  !  "  Marta  hastily 
interrupted.  "  I,  too,  believe  everything,  everything — that 
I  wish  to  believe." 

II. 

Marta  and  Magdalena  were  sisters.  Orphans  from 
early  childhood,  they  were  living  wretchedly  under  the  pro- 
tection of  a  kinswoman  of  their  mother, — a  kinswoman  who 
had  taken  them  in  for  charity  and  who  at  every  step  made 
them  feel,  by  her  taunting  and  humiliating  words,  the  weight 
of  their  obligation.  Everything  would  seem  to  tend  toward 
tightening  the  knot  of  love  between  those  two  sister  souls, — 
not  merely  the  bond  of  blood,  but  those  of  poverty  and 
suffering,  and  yet  there  existed  between  Marta  and  Magda- 


204 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


lena  a  mute  rivalry,  a  secret  antipathy  explicable  only  by  a 
study  of  their  characters,  as  utterly  contrasted  as  were  their 
physical  types. 

Marta  was  overbearing,  strong  in  her  passions  and  of 
a  rough  directness  in  the  expression  of  her  feelings  ;  she  did 
not  understand  either  laughter  or  tears,  and  so  had  never 
wept  nor  laughed.  Magdalena,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
gentle,  affectionate,  kind,  and  more  than  once  had  been 
seen  to  laugh  and  weep  together,  as  children  do. 

Marta's  eyes  were  blacker  than  night  and  from  under  her 
dark  lashes  there  sometimes  seemed  to  leap  fiery  sparks  as 
from  a  burning  coal. 

The  blue  eyes  of  Magdalena  appeared  to  swim  in  liquid 
light  behind  the  golden  curve  of  her  blond  lashes.  And 
everything  in  them  was  in  keeping  with  the  different  ex- 
pression of  their  eyes.  Marta,  thin,  pale,  tall,  stiff  of  move- 
ment, her  dark,  crisp  hair  shading  her  brow  and  falling  upon 
her  shoulders  like  a  velvet  mantle,  formed  a  singular  con- 
trast to  Magdalena,  white  and  pink,  petite,  with  the  rounded 
face  and  figure  of  babyhood,  and  with  golden  tresses  encir- 
cling her  temples  like  the  gilded  halo  about  the  head  of  an 
angel. 

Despite  the  inexplicable  repulsion  which  each  felt  for  the 
other,  the  two  sisters  had  lived  up  to  this  time  on  terms  of 
indifference  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for  peace  and 
affection ;  there  had  been  no  caresses  to  quarrel  over,  nor 
partialities  to  envy  ;  equal  in  misfortune  and  affliction,  Marta, 
withdrawn  into  herself,  had  borne  her  troubles  in  a  proud, 
self-centered  silence ;  and  Magdalena,  finding  no  response 
in  her  sister's  heart,  would  weep  alone  when  the  tears  in- 
voluntarily rushed  into  her  eyes. 

They  had  not  a  sentiment  in  common  ;  they  never  con- 
fided to  one  another  their  joys  and  griefs,  and  yet  the  only 
secret  which  each  had  striven  to  hide  in  the  depths  of  her 


THE  GNOME  205 

soul  had  been  divined  by  the  other  with  the  marvelous  in- 
stinct of  love  and  jealousy.  Marta  and  Magdalena  had  in 
fact  set  their  hearts  on  one  and  the  same  man. 

The  passion  of  the  one  was  a  stubborn  desire,  born  of  a 
wilful  and  indomitable  character;  in  the  other,  love  was 
manifest  in  that  vague,  spontaneous  tenderness  of  youth, 
which,  needing  an  object  on  which  to  spend  itself,  takes  the 
first  that  comes.  Both  guarded  the  secret  of  their  love,  for 
the  man  who  had  inspired  it  would  perchance  have  made 
mock  of  a  devotion  which  could  be  interpreted  as  an  absurd 
ambition  in  penniless  girls  of  lowly  birth.  Both,  despite  the 
distance  which  separated  them  from  their  idol,  cherished  a 
faint  hope  of  winning  him. 

Hard  by  the  village,  and  above  a  height  which  dominated 
the  country  round  about,  there  was  an  ancient  castle  aban- 
doned by  its  owners.  The  old  women,  in  their  evening 
gossips,  would  relate  a  marvellous  story  about  its  founders. 
They  told  how  the  King  of  Aragon,  finding  himself  at  war 
with  his  enemies,  his  resources  exhausted,  forsaken  by  his 
allies  and  on  the  point  of  losing  the  throne,  was  sought  out 
one  day  by  a  shepherdess  of  those  parts,  who,  after  reveal- 
ing to  him  the  existence  of  certain  subterranean  passages  by 
means  of  which  he  could  go  through  the  Moncayo  without 
being  perceived  by  his  enemies,  gave  him  a  treasure  in  fine 
pearls,  precious  stones  of  the  richest,  and  bars  of  gold  and 
silver  ;  with  these  the  king  paid  his  troops,  raised  a  mighty 
army  and,  marching  beneath  the  earth  one  whole  night  long, 
fell  the  next  day  upon  his  adversaries  and  routed  them, 
establishing  the  crown  securely  on  his  head. 

After  he  had  won  so  distinguished  a  victory,  the  story  goes 
that  the  king  said  to  the  shepherdess :  "  Ask  of  me  what 
thou  wilt,  and  even  though  it  be  the  half  of  my  kingdom,  I 
swear  I  will  give  it  thee  on  the  instant." 

"  I   wish  no  more  than  to  go  back  to  the  keeping  of  my 


2o6  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

flock,"  replied  the  shepherdess.  "  Thou  shalt  keep  only 
my  frontiers,"  rejoined  the  king,  and  he  gave  her  lordship 
over  all  the  boundary,  and  bade  her  build  a  stronghold  in 
the  town  nearest  the  borders  of  Castile  ;  here  dwelt  the 
shepherdess,  married  to  one  of  the  king's  favorites,  a  hus- 
band noble,  gallant,  valiant  and,  as  well,  lord  over  many  for- 
tresses and  many  fiefs. 

The  astonishing  account  given  by  Uncle  Gregorio  of  the 
Moncayo  gnomes,  whose  secret  haunt  was  in  the  village 
fountain,  set  soaring  anew  the  wild  dreams  of  the  two 
enamored  sisters,  for  it  formed  a  sequel,  so  to  speak,  to  the 
hitherto  unexplained  tradition  of  the  treasure  found  by  the 
fabled  shepherdess — treasure  whose  remembered  gleam 
had  troubled  more  than  once  their  wakeful,  embittered 
nights,  flashing  before  their  imaginations  like  a  fragile  ray 
of  hope. 

The  evening  following  their  afternoon  meeting  with  Uncle 
Gregorio,  all  the  other  girls  of  the  village  chatted  in  their 
homes  about  the  wonderful  story  he  had  told  them.  Marta 
and  Magdalena  preserved  an  unbroken  silence,  and  neither 
that  evening,  nor  throughout  the  following  day,  did  they 
exchange  a  single  word  on  this  matter,  the  theme  of  all  the 
talk  throughout  the  hamlet  and  text  of  all  the  neighbors' 
commentaries. 

At  the  usual  hour,  Magdalena  took  "her  water-jar  and  said 
to  her  sister :  "  Shall  we  go  to  the  fountain  ?  "  Marta  did 
not  answer,  and  Magdalena  said  again  :  "  Shall  we  go  to  the 
fountain  ?  If  we  do  not  hurry,  the  sun  will  have  set  before* 
we  are  back."  Marta  finally  replied  shortly  and  roughly: 
"  I  don't  care  about  going  to-day."  "  Neither  do  I,"  re- 
joined Magdalena  after  an  instant  of  silence  during  which 
she  kept  her  eyes  fastened  on  those  of  her  sister,  as  if  she 
would  read  in  them  the  cause  of  her  resolution. 


THE  GNOME  207 

III. 

For  nearly  an  hour  the  village  girls  had  been  back  in 
their  homes.  The  last  glow  of  sunset  had  faded  on  the 
horizon,  and  the  night  was  beginning  to  close  in  more  and 
more  darkly,  when  Marta  and  Magdalena,  each  avoiding 
the  other,  left  the  hamlet  by  different  paths  in  the  direction 
of  the  mysterious  fountain.  The  fountain  welled  up  in  a 
hidden  nook  among  some  steep,  mossy  rocks  at  the  further 
end  of  a  deep  grove.  Now  that  the  sounds  of  the  day  had 
ceased  little  by  little,  and  no  longer  was  heard  the  distant 
echo  of  voices  from  the  laborers  who  return  home  in 
knightly  fashion,  mounted  on  their  yoked  oxen  and  trolling 
out  songs  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  beam  of  the  plough 
they  ^o  dragging  over  the  ground, — now  that  the  mon- 
otonous clang  of  the  sheep-bells  had  gone  beyond  hearing, 
together  with  the  shouts  of  the  shepherds  and  the  barking 
of  their  dogs  gathering  the  flocks  together, — now  that  there 
had  sounded  in  the  village-tower  the  last  peal  of  the  call  to 
prayers,  there  reigned  august  that  double  silence  of  night 
and  solitude,  a  silence  full  of  strange,  soft  murmurs  making 
it  yet  more  perceptible. 

Marta  and  Magdalena  slipped  through  the  labyrinth  of 
the  trees  and,  sheltered  by  the  darkness,  arrived  without 
seeing  each  other  at  the  far  end  of  the  grove.  Marta  knew 
no  fear ;  her  steps  were  firm  and  unfaltering.  Magdalena 
trembled  at  the  mere  rustle  made  by  her  feet  as  they  trod 
upon  the  dry  leaves  carpeting  the  ground.  When  the  two 
sisters  were  close  to  the  fountain,  the  night  wind  began  to 
stir  the  branches  of  the  poplars,  and  to  their  uneven,  sighing 
whispers  the  springing  water  seemed  to  make  answer  with 
a  steady,  regular  murmur. 

Marta  and  Magdalena  lent  attention  to  those  soft  noises 
of  the  night, — those  that  flowed  beneath  their  feet  like  a  con- 


2o8  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

tinuous  ripple  of  laughter,  and  those  that  floated  above  their 
heads  like  a  lament  rising  and  falling  only  to  rise  again  and 
spread  through  the  foliage  of  the  grove.  As  the  hours  went 
on,  that  unceasing  sound  of  the  air  and  of  the  water  began 
to  produce  in  them  a  strange  exaltation,  a  kind  of  dizziness 
that,  clouding  the  eyes  and  humming  in  the  ears,  seemed  to 
confuse  them  utterly.  Then  as  one  hears  in  dreams  the  far, 
vague  echo  of  speech,  they  seemed  to  perceive,  amid  those 
nameless  noises,  inarticulate  sounds  as  of  a  child  who  would 
call  his  mother  and  cannot ;  then  words  repeated  over  and 
over,  always  the  same ;  then  disconnected,  inconsequent 
phrases,  without  order  or  meaning,  and  at  last — at  last  the 
wind  wandering  among  the  trees,  and  the  water  leaping  from 
rock  to  rock,  commenced  to  speak. 
And  they  spoke  thus  : 

The  Water. 

Woman  1 — woman  ! — hear  me  ! — hear  me  and  draw  near 
that  thou  mayst  hear  me,  and  I  will  kiss  thy  feet  while  I 
tremble  to  copy  thine  image  in  the  shadowy  depth  of  my 
waves.     Woman  ! — hear  how  my  murmurs  are  words. 

The  Wind. 

Maiden ! — Gentle  maiden,  lift  thine  head,  let  me  give  thy 
brow  the  kiss  of  peace,  while  I  stir  thy  tresses.  Gentle 
maiden,  listen  to  me,  for  I,  too,  know  how  to  speak  and  I 
will  murmur  in  thine  ear  phrases  of  tenderness. 

Marta. 

Oh,  speak  1     Speak,  and  I  will  understand,  for  my  mind 
floats  in  a  dizzy  maze,  as  float  those  dim  words  of  thine. 
Speak,  mysterious  stream. 


THE  GNOME  209 

Magdalena. 

I  am  afraid.  Air  of  night,  air  of  perfumes,  refresh  my 
burning  brow !  Tell  me  what  may  inspire  me  with  courage, 
for  my  spirit  wavers. 

The  Water. 

I  have  crossed  the  dark  hollow  of  the  earth,  I  have  sur- 
prised the  secret  of  its  marvellous  fecundity,  and  I  know  the 
phenomena  of  its  inner  parts,  whence  springs  the  life  to  be. 

My  murmur  lulls  to  sleep  and  awakens.  Awaken  thou 
that  thou  mayst  comprehend  it.  . 

The  Wind. 

I  am  the  air  which  the  angels,  as  they  traverse  space,  set 
in  motion  with  their  mighty  wings.  1  mass  up  in  the  west 
the  clouds  that  offer  to  the  sun  a  bed  of  purple,  and  I  shed 
at  dawn,  from  the  mists  that  vanish  into  drops,  a  pearly  dew 
over  the  flowers.  My  sighs  are  a  balm  :  open  thine  heart 
and  I  will  flood  it  with  bliss. 

Marta. 

When  for  the  first  time  I  heard  the  murmur  of  a  subter- 
ranean stream,  not  in  vain  did  I  bow  myself  to  the  earth, 
lending  it  ear.  With  it  there  went  a  mystery  which  at  last 
it  should  be  mine  to  understand. 

Magdalena. 

Sighs  of  the  wind,  I  know  you  well :  you  used  to  caress  me, 
a  dreaming  child,  when,  spent  with  weeping,  I  gave  myself 
up  to  slumber,  and  your  soft  breathings  would  seem  to  me 
the  words  of  a  mother  who  sings  her  child  to  sleep. 

The  water  ceased  from  speech  for  a  few  moments  and 


2IO  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

made  no  other  noise  than  that  of  water  breaking  on  rocks. 
The  wind  was  voiceless,  too,  and  its  sound  was  no  other 
than  the  sound  of  blowing  leaves.  So  passed  some  time, 
and  then  they  spoke  again,  and  thus  they  spoke : 

The  Water. 

Since  I  came  filtering,  drop  by  drop,  through  the  vein  of 
gold  in  an  inexhaustible  mine ;  since  I  came  running  along 
a  bed  of  silver  and  leaping,  as  over  pebbles,  amid  innumer- 
able sapphires  and  amethysts,  bearing  on  with  me,  in  lieu  of 
sands,  diamonds  and  rubies,  I  have  joined  myself  in  mystic 
union  to  a  spirit  of  the  earth.  Enriched  by  his  power  and 
by  the  occult  virtues  of  the  precious  stones  and  metals, 
saturated  with  whose  atoms  I  come,  I  can  offer  thee  the 
utmost  reach  of  thine  ambitions.  I  have  the  force  of  an  in- 
cantation, the  power  of  a  talisman,  and  the  virtue  of  the  seven 
stones  and  the  seven  colors. 

The  Wind. 

I  come  from  wandering  over  the  plain,  and  as  the  bee  that 
returns  to  the  hive  with  its  booty  of  sweet  honey,  I  bring 
with  me  woman's  sighs,  children's  prayers,  words  of  chaste 
love,  and  aromas  of  nard  and  wild  lihes.  I  have  gathered 
in  my  journey  no  more  than  fragrances  and  echoes  of  har- 
monies ;  my  treasures  are  not  material,  but  they  give  peace 
of  soul  and  the  vague  happiness  of  pleasant  dreams. 

While  her  sister,  drawn  on  and  on  as  by  a  spell,  was  lean- 
ing over  the  margin  of  the  fountain  to  hear  better,  Mag- 
dalena  was  instinctively  moving  away,  withdrawing  from  the 
steep  rocks  in  whose  midst  bubbled  the  spring. 

Both  had  their  eyes  fixed,  the  one  on  the  depth  of  the 
waters,  the  other  on  the  depth  of  the  sky. 


THE  GNOME  211 

And  Magdalena  exclaimed,  seeing  the  astral  splendors 
overhead  :  "  These  are  the  halos  of  the  invisible  angels  who 
have  us  in  their  keeping." 

At  the  same  instant  Marta  was  saying,  seeing  the  reflection 
of  the  stars  tremble  in  the  clear  waters  of  the  fountain  : 
"  These  are  the  particles  of  gold  which  the  stream  gathers 
in  its  mysterious  course." 

The  fountain  and  the  wind,  after  a  second  brief  period  of 
silence,  spoke  again  and  said  : 

The  Water. 

Trust  thyself  to  my  current,  cast  from  thee  fear  as  a  coarse 
garment,  and  dare  to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  unknown. 
I  have  divined  that  thy  soul  is  of  the  essence  of  the  higher 
spirits. 

Envy  perchance  hath  thrust  thee  out  of  heaven  to  plunge 
thee  into  the  mire  of  mortal  misery.  Yet  I  see  in  thy 
darkened  brow  a  seal  of  pride  that  renders  thee  worthy  of  us, 
spirits  strong  and  free. — Come ;  I  am  going  to  teach  thee 
magic  words  of  such  virtue  that  as  thou  speakest  them  the 
rocks  will  open  and  allure  thee  with  the  diamonds  that  are 
in  their  hearts,  as  pearls  are  in  the  shells  which  fishermen 
bring  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Come  !  I  will  give 
thee  treasures  that  thou  mayst  live  in  joy,  and  later,  when 
the  cell  that  imprisons  thee  is  shattered,  thy  spirit  shall  be  "^ 

made  like  unto  our  own,  which  are  human  spirits,  and  all  in 
one  we  shall  be  the  motive  force,  the  vital  ray  of  the  universe,  \ 

circulating  like  a  fluid  through  its  subterranean  arteries. 

The  Wind. 

Water  licks  the  earth  and  lives  in  the  mud  ;  I  roam  the 
ether  and  fly  in  limitless  space.  Follow  the  impulses  of 
thy  heart ;  let  thy  soul  rise  like  flame   and  the  azure  spirals 


2 1 2  ROMANTIC  LE GENDS  OF  SPAIN 

of  smoke.  Wretched  is  he  who,  having  wings,  descends  to 
the  depths  to  seek  for  gold,  while  he  might  mount  to  the 
heights  for  love  and  sympathy. 

Live  hidden  as  the  violet,  and  I  will  give  thee  in  a  fruit- 
ful kiss  the  living  seed  of  another,  sister  flower,  and  I  will 
rend  the  clouds  that  there  may  not  be  lacking  a  sunbeam  to 
illume  thy  joy.  Live  obscure,  live  unheeded,  and  when 
thy  spirit  is  set  free,  I  will  lift  it  on  a  rosy  cloud  up  to  the 
world  of  light. 

Wind  and  wave  were  hushed,  and  there  appeared  the 
gnome. 

The  gnome  was  like  a  transparent  pigmy,  a  sort  of  dwarf 
all  made  of  light,  as  a  Will-o-the-wisp ;  it  laughed  hugely, 
but  without  noise,  and  leapt  from  rock  to  rock,  making  one 
dizzy  with  its  giddy  antics.  Sometimes  it  plunged  into  the 
water  and  kept  on  shining  in  the  depths  like  a  precious  stone 
of  myriad  colors ;  again  it  leapt  to  the  surface,  and  tossed 
its  feet  and  its  hands,  and  swung  its  head  from  one  side  to 
the  other  with  a  rapidity  that  was  little  short  of  prodigious. 

Marta  had  seen  the  gnome  and  was  following  him  with  a 
bewildered  gaze  in  all  his  extravagant  evolutions  ;  and  when 
the  diabolical  spirit  darted  away  at  last  into  the  craggy  wilds 
of  the  Moncayo,  like  a  running  flame,  shaking  out  sparks 
from  its  hair,  she  felt  an  irresistible  attraction  and  rushed 
after  it  in  frantic  chase. 

Magdalena  /  at  the  same  instant  called  the  breeze,  slowly 
withdrawing ;  and  Magdalena,  moving  step  by  step  like  a 
sleep-walker  guided  in  slumber  by  a  friendly  voice,  followed 
the  zephyr,  which  was  softly  blowing  over  the  plain. 

When  all  was  done,  again  there  was  silence  in  the  dusky 
grove,  and  the  wind  and  the  water  kept  on,  as  ever,  with 
sounds  as  of  murmuring  and  sighing. 


THE  GNOME  213 

IV. 

Magdalena  returned  to  the  hamlet  pale  and  full  of  amaze- 
ment.    They  waited  in  vain  for  Marta  all  that  night. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  the  village  girls 
found  a  broken  water-jar  at  the  margin  of  the  fountain  in 
the  grove.  It  was  Marta's  water-jar ;  nothing  more  was  ever 
known  of  her.  Since  then  the  girls  go  for  water  so  early 
that  they  rise  with  the  sun.  A  few  have  assured  me  that  by 
night  there  has  been  heard,  more  than  once,  the  weeping  of 
Marta,  whose  spirit  lives  imprisoned  in  the  fountain.  I  do 
not  know  what  credit  to  give  to  this  last  part  of  the  story, 
for  the  truth  is  that  since  that  night  nobody  has  dared  pene- 
trate into  the  grove  to  hear  it  after  the  ringing  of  the  Ave 
Maria, 


THE  MISERERE 

Some  months  since,  while  visiting  the  celebrated  abbey 
of  Fitero  and  entertaining  myself  by  turning  over  a  few 
volumes  in  its  neglected  library,  I  discovered,  stowed  away 
in  a  dark  corner,  two  or  three  old  books  of  manuscript  music, 
covered  with  dust  and  gnawed  at  the  edges  by  rats. 

It  was  a  Miserere. 

I  do  not  read  music,  but  it  attracts  me  so  that,  even  though 
I  do  not  understand  it,  I  sometimes  take  up  the  score  of  an 
opera  and  pore  over  its  pages  for  hours,  looking  at  the  groups 
of  notes  more  or  less  crowded  together,  the  dashes,  the  semi- 
circles, the  triangles  and  that  sort  of  et  cetera  Q.2i^^A  keys,  and 
all  this  without  comprehending  an  iota  or  deriving  the 
slightest  profit. 

After  this  foolish  habit  of  mine,  I  turned  over  the  leaves 
of  the  music-books,  and  the  first  thing  which  attracted  my 
attention  was  the  fact  that,  although  on  the  last  page  stood 
that  Latin  word  so  common  in  all  compositions,  yf«/j-,  the 
Miserere  was  not  concluded,  for  the  music  did  not  go  be- 
yond the  tenth  verse  of  the  psalm. 

This  it  was,  undoubtedly,  that  arrested  my  attention  first ; 
but  as  soon  as  I  scanned  the  pages  closely,  I  was  still  more 
surprised  to  observe  that  instead  of  the  Italian  words  com- 
monly used,  such  as  maestoso^  allegro^  rifardando,  piu  vivo,  d 
piaeere,  there  were  lines  of  very  small  German  script  written 
in,  some  of  which  called  for  things  as  difficult  to  do  as  this  : 
"  They  crack — crack  the  bones  ^  and  from  their  marrow  must  the 
cries  seem  to  come  forth  ;  "  or  this  other  :  **  The  chord  shrieketh^ 
yet  in  unison;  the  tone  thundereth^ yet  without  deafening ;  for 

214 


THE  MISERERE  215 

all  that  hath  sound  soundeth^  arid  there  is  no  confusion^ 
a7id  all  is  htimanity  that  sobbeth  and  groatieth  ;  "  or  what  was 
certainly  the  most  original  of  all,  enjoined  just  under  the 
last  verse  :  "  The  notes  are  bones  covered  with  flesh  ;  light  in- 
extinguishable, the  heavens  afid  their  harmony— force  I— force 
and  sweetness.^^ 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  is  ? "  I  asked  of  the  old  friar 
who  accompanied  me,  after  I  had  half  translated  these  lines, 
which  seemed  like  phrases  scribbled  by  a  lunatic. 

My  aged  guide  then  told  me  the  legend  which  I  now  pass 
on  to  you. 


Many  years  ago,  on  a  dark  and  rainy  night,  a  pilgrim 
arrived  at  the  cloister  door  of  this  abbey  and  begged  for  a 
little  fire  to  dry  his  clothes,  a  morsel  of  bread  to  appease  his 
hunger,  and  a  shelter,  however  humble,  till  the  morning, 
when  he  would  resume  his  journey  at  dawn. 

The  lay-brother  of  whom  this  request  was  made  placed 
his  own  meagre  repast,  his  own  poor  bed  and  his  glowing 
hearth  at  the  service  of  the  traveller,  to  whom,  after  he  had 
recovered  from  his  exhaustion,  were  put  the  usual  questions 
as  to  the  purpose  of  his  pilgrimage  and  the  goal  to  which 
his  steps  were  bent. 

"  I  am  a  musician,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  I  was  born 
far  from  here,  and  in  my  own  country  I  enjoyed  a  day  of 
great  renown.  In  my  youth  I  made  of  my  art  a  powerful 
weapon  of  seduction  and  I  enkindled  with  it  passions  which 
drew  me  on  to  crime.  In  my  old  age  I  would  use  for  good 
the  talents  which  I  have  employed  for  evil,  redeeming  my 
soul  by  the  very  means  that  have  brought  it  into  danger  of 
the  judgment." 

As  the  enigmatic  words  of  the  unknown  guest  did  not  seem 


2i6  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

at  all  clear  to  the  lay-brother,  whose  curiosity  was  now 
becoming  aroused,  he  was  moved  to  press  his  questions 
further,  obtaining  the  following  response  : 

"  I  was  ever  weeping  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  for  the  sin 
that  I  had  committed  ;  but  when  I  tried  to  pray  to  God  for 
mercy,  I  could  find  no  adequate  words  to  utter  my  repentance, 
until  one  day  my  eyes  chanced  to  fall  upon  a  holy  book.  I 
opened  that  book  and  on  one  of  its  pages  I  met  with  a  giant 
cry  of  true  contrition,  a  psalm  of  David,  commencing : 
Miserere  mei^  Do7nine  !  From  the  instant  in  which  I  read 
those  verses  my  one  thought  has  been  to  find  a  musical  ex- 
pression so  magnificent,  so  sublime,  that  it  would  suffice  as 
a  setting  for  the  Royal  Psalmist's  mighty  hymn  of  anguish. 
As  yet  I  have  not  found  it ;  but  if  I  ever  attain  to  the  point 
of  expressing  what  I  feel  in  my  heart,  what  I  hear  confusedly 
in  my  brain,  I  am  sure  of  writing  a  Miserere  so  marvellous 
in  beauty  that  the  sons  of  men  will  have  heard  no  other  like 
unto  it,  so  desperate  in  grief  that,  as  its  first  strains  rise  to 
heaven,  the  archangels,  their  eyes  flooded  with  tears,  will 
with  me  cry  out  unto  the  Lord,  beseeching  Mercy  ;  and  the 
Lord  will  be  merciful  to  his  unhappy  creature." 

The  pilgrim,  on  reaching  this  point  in  his  narrative,  paused 
for  an  instant,  and  then,  heaving  a  sigh,  took  up  again  the 
thread  of  his  story.  The  lay-brother,  a  few  dependents  of 
the  abbey,  and  two  or  three  shepherds  from  the  friars'  farm — 
these  who  formed  the  circle  about  the  hearth — listened  to 
him  in  the  deepest  silence. 

"  After  travelling  over  all  Germany,"  he  continued,  "  all 
Italy  and  the  greater  part  of  this  country  whose  sacred  music 
is  classic,  I  have  not  yet  heard  a  Miserere  that  can  give  me 
my  inspiration,  not  one, — not  one,  and  I  have  heard  so  many 
that  I  may  say  I  have  heard  them  all." 

"  All  ?  "  broke  in  one  of  the  upper  shepherds.  "  But  you 
have  npt  heard,  have  you,  the  Miserere  of  the  Mountain  ?  " 


I 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE  MISERERE  217 

"  The  Miserere  of  the  Mountain  !  "  exclaimed  the  musician 
with  an  air  of  amazement.     "  What  Miserere  is  that  ?  " 

"  Didn't  I  say  so  ? "  muttered  the  peasant  under  his 
breath,  and  then  went  on  in  a  mysterious  tone :  "  This 
Mise?'erej  which  is  only  heard,  as  chance  may  fall,  by  those 
who,  like  myself,  wander  day  and  night  following  the  sheep 
through  the  thickets  and  over  the  rocky  hills,  is,  in  fact,  a 
tradition,  a  very  old  tradition  ;  yet  incredible  as  it  seems,  it 
is  no  less  true. 

"The  case  is  that,  in  the  most  rugged  part  of  yonder 
mountain  chains  which  bound  the  horizon  of  this  valley  in 
whose  bosom  the  abbey  stands,  there  used  to  be,  many  years 
ago — why  do  I  say  many  years  ! — many  centuries,  rather,  a 
famous  monastery.  This  monastery,  it  seems,  was  built  at 
his  own  cost  by  a  lord  with  the  wealth  that  he  would 
naturally  have  left  to  his  son,  whom  on  his  death-bed  he 
disinherited,  as  a  punishment  for  the  young  profligate's  evil 
deeds. 

"  So  far,  all  had  gone  well ;  but  the  trouble  is  that  this  son, 
who,  from  what  will  be  seen  further  on,  must  have  been  the 
skin  of  the  Devil,  if  not  the  Devil  himself,  learning  that  his 
goods  were  in  the  possession  of  the  monks,  and  that  his 
castle  had  been  transformed  into  a  church,  gathered  together 
a  crew  of  banditti,  comrades  of  his  in  the  ruffian  life  he  had 
taken  up  on  forsaking  his  father's  house,  and  one  Holy 
Thursday  night,  when  the  monks  would  be  in  the  choir,  and 
at  the  very  hour  and  minute  when  they  would  be  just  be- 
ginning or  would  have  just  begun  the  Afiserere,  these  outlaws 
set  fire  to  the  monastery,  sacked  the  church,  and  willy-nilly, 
left  not  a  single  monk  alive. 

"  After  this  atrocity,  the  banditti  and  their  leader  went 
away,  whither  no  one  knows,  perhaps  to  hell. 

"  The  flames  reduced  the  monastery  to  ashes ;  of  the 
church  there  still  remain  standing  the  ruins  upon  the  hollow 


2i8  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

crag  whence  springs  the  cascade  that  after  leaping  down 
from  rock  to  rock,  forms  the  rill  which  comes  to  bathe  the 
walls  of  this  abbey." 

«  But," — interrupted  the  musician  impatiently,  "  the  Mis- 
erere ?  " 

"  Wait  a  while,"  said  the  shepherd  with  great  deliberation, 
"and  all  will  be  told  in  proper  order."  Vouchsafing  no 
further  reply,  he  continued  his  story  : 

"  The  people  of  all  the  country  round  about  were  shocked 
at  the  crime  ;  it  was  related  with  horror  in  the  long  winter 
evenings,  handed  down  from  father  to  son,  and  from  son  to 
grandson  ;  but  what  tends  most  of  all  to  keep  it  fresh  in 
memory  is  that  every  year,  on  the  anniversary  of  that  night 
when  the  church  was  burned,  lights  are  seen  shining  out 
through  its  shattered  windows,  and  there  is  heard  a  sort  of 
strange  music,  with  mournful,  terrible  chants  that  are  borne 
at  intervals  upon  the  gusts  of  wind. 

"  The  singers  are  the  monks,  who,  slain  perchance  before 
they  were  ready  to  present  themselves  pure  of  all  sin  at  the 
Judgment  Seat  of  God,  still  come  from  Purgatory  to  implore 
Ills  mercy,  chanting  the  Miserere.^' 

The  group  about  the  fire  exchanged  glances  of  incredulity ; 
but  the  pilgrim,  who  had  seemed  to  be  vitally  interested  in 
the  recital  of  the  tradition,  inquired  eagerly  of  the  narrator : 

"  And  do  you  say  that  this  marvel  still  takes  place  ?  " 

<'  It  will  begin  without  fail  in  less  than  three  hours,  for 
the  precise  reason  that  this  is  Holy  Thursday  night,  and 
the  abbey  clock  has  just  struck  eight." 

"  How  far  is  the  monastery  from  here  ?  " 

"  Barely  a  league  and  a  half, — but  what  are  you  doing  ? " 
"  Whither  would  you  go  on  a  night  like  this  ? "  "  Have 
you  fallen  from  the  shelter  of  God's  hand  .? "  exclaimed  one 
and  another  as  they  saw  the  pilgrim,  rising  from  his  bench 


THE  MISERERE 


219 


and  taking  his  staff,  leave  the  fireplace  and  move  toward 
the  door. 

"  Whither  am  I  going  ?  To  hear  this  miraculous  music, 
to  hear  the  great,  the  true  Miserere^  the  Miserere  of  those 
who  return  to  the  world  after  death,  those  who  know  what 
it  is  to  die  in  sin." 

And  so  saying,  he  disappeared  from  the  sight  of  the 
amazed  lay-brother  and  the  no  less  astonished  shepherds. 

The  wind  shrilled  without  and  shook  the  doors  as  if  a 
powerful  hand  were  striving  to  tear  them  from  their  hinges  ; 
the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  beating  against  the  window-panes, 
and  from  time  to  time  a  lightning-fiash  lit  up  for  an  instant 
all  the  horizon  that  could  be  seen  from  there. 

After  the  first  moment  of  bewilderment  had  passed  the 
lay-brother  exclaimed : 

"  He  is  mad." 

"  He  is  mad,"  repeated  the  shepherds  and,  replenishing 
the  fire,  they  gathered  closely  around  the  hearth. 

II. 

After  walking  for  an  hour  or  two,  the  mysterious  person-" 
age,  to  whom  they  had  given  the  degree  of  madman  in  the 
abbey,  by  following  upstream  the  course  of  the  rill  which  the 
story-telling  shepherd  had  pointed  out  to  him,  reached  the 
spot  where  rose  the  blackened,  impressive  ruins  of  the 
monastery. 

The  rain  had  ceased  ;  the  clouds  were  drifting  in  long, 
dark  masses,  from  between  whose  shifting  shapes  there 
glided  from  time  to  time  a  furtive  ray  of  doubtful,  pallid 
light ;  and  one  would  say  that  the  wind,  as  it  lashed  the 
strong  buttresses  and  swept  with  widening  wings  through  the 
deserted  cloisters,  was  groaning  in  its  flight.  Yet  nothing 
supernatural,  nothing  extraordinary  occurred  to  strike  the 
imagination.     To  him  who  had  slept  more  nights  than  one 


220  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

without  Other  shelter  than  the  ruins  of  an  abandoned  tower 
or  a  lonely  castle, — to  him  who  in  his  far  pilgrimage  had 
encountered  hundreds  on  hundreds  of  storms,  all  those 
noises  were  famihar. 

The  drops  of  water  which  filtered  through  the  cracks  of 
the  broken  arches  and  fell  upon  the  stones  below  with  a 
measured  sound  like  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock ;  the  hoots 
of  the  owl,  screeching  from  his  refuge  beneath  the  stone 
nimbus  of  an  image  still  standing  in  a  niche  of  the  wall ; 
the  stir  of  the  reptiles  that,  wakened  from  their  lethargy  by 
the  tempest,  thrust  out  their  misshapen  heads  from  the 
holes  where  they  sleep,  or  crawled  among  the  wild  mustard 
and  the  briers  that  grow  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  rooted  in  the 
crevices  between  the  sepulchral  slabs  that  form  the  pave- 
ment of  the  church, — all  those  strange  and  niysterious  mur- 
murs of  the  open  country,  of  solitude  and  of  night,  came  per- 
ceptibly to  the  ear  of  the  pilgrim  who,  seated  on  the  muti- 
lated statue  of  a  tomb,  was  anxiously  awaiting  the  hour  when 
the  marvellous  event  should  take  place. 

But  still  the  time  went  by  and  nothing  more  was  heard  ; 
those  myriad  confused  noises  kept  on  sounding  and  com- 
bining with  one  another  in  a  thousand  different  ways,  but 
themselves  always  the  same. 

"  Ah,  they  have  played  a  joke  on  me  !  "  thought  the  musi- 
cian; but  at  that  moment  he  heard  a  new  sound,  a  sound 
inexplicable  in  such  a  place,  like  that  made  by  a  clock  a  few 
seconds  before  striking  the  hour,  a  sound  of  whirring  wheels, 
of  stretching  cords,  of  machinery  secretly  setting  to  work 
and  making  ready  to  use  its  mysterious  mechanic  vitality, 
and  a  bell  rang  out  the  hour — one,  two,  three,  up  to  eleven. 

In  the  ruined  church  there  was  no  bell  nor  clock,  not 
even  a  bell-tower. 

The  last  peal,  lessening  from  echo  to  echo,  had  not  yet  died 
away ;  the  vibration  was  still  perceptible,  trembling  in  the  air, 


THE  MISERERE  2  2 1 

when  the  granite  canopies  which  overhung  the  sculptures, 
the  marble  steps  of  the  altars,  the  hewn  stones  of  the  ogee 
arches,  the  fretted  screens  of  the  choir,  the  festoons  of  tre- 
foil on  the  cornices,  the  black  buttresses  of  the  walls,  the 
pavements,  the  vaulted  ceiling,  the  entire  church,  began  to 
be  lighted  by  no  visible  agency,  nor  was  there  in  sight  torch 
or  lamp  or  candle  to  shed  abroad  that  unwonted  radiance. 

It  suggested  a  skeleton  over  whose  yellow  bones  spreads 
that  phosphoric  gas  which  burns  and  puts  forth  fumes  in  the 
darkness  like  a  blue  light,  restless  and  terrible. 

Everything  seemed  to  be  in  motion,  but  with  that  galvanic 
movement  which  lends  to  death  contractions  that  parody 
life,  instantaneous  movement  more  horrible  even  than  the 
inertia  of  the  corpse  which  stirs  with  that  unknown  force. 
Stones  reunited  themselves  to  stones  ;  the  altar,  whose 
broken  fragments  had  before  been  scattered  about  in  dis- 
order, rose  intact,  as  if  the  artificer  had  just  given  it  the  last 
blow  of  the  chisel,  and  simultaneously  with  the  altar  rose 
the  ruined  chapels,  the  shattered  capitals  and  the  great, 
crumbled  series  of  arches  which,  crossing  and  interlacing  at 
caprice,  formed  with  their  columns  a  labyrinth  of  porphyry. 

As  soon  as  the  church  was  rebuilt  there  grew  upon  the 
hearing  a  distant  harmony  which  might  have  been  taken  for 
the  wailing  of  the  wind,  but  which  was  a  chorus  of  far-off, 
solemn  voices,  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  depths  of  the 
earth  and  rise  to  the  surface  little  by  little,  continually 
growing  more  distinct. 

The  daring  pilgrim  began  to  fear,  but  with  his  fear  still 
battled  his  passion  for  the  bygone  and  the  marvellous,  and 
made  valiant  by  the  strength  of  his  desire,  he  left  the  tomb 
on  which  he  was  resting,  leaned  over  the  brink  of  the  abyss, 
amid  whose  rocks  leapt  the  torrent,  rushing  over  the  preci- 
pice with  an  incessant  and  terrifying  thunder,  and  his  hair 
rose  with  horror. 


22  2  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

111  wrapped  in  the  tatters  of  their  habits,  their  cowls,  be- 
neath whose  folds  the  dark  eye-cavities  of  the  skulls  con- 
trasted with  the  fleshless  jaws  and  the  white  teeth,  drawn 
forward  over  their  heads,  he  saw  the  skeletons  of '  the 
monks  who  had  been  thrown  from  the  battlements  of  the 
church  down  that  headlong  steep,  emerging  from  the  depth 
of  the  waters  and,  clutching  with  the  long  fingers  of  their 
bony  hands  at  the  fissures  in  the  rocks,  clamber  over  them 
up  to  the  brink,  chanting  in  low,  sepulchral  voice,  but  with 
a  heartrending  intonation  of  anguish,  the  first  verse  of 
David's  Psalm : 

Miserere  meiy  Domine,  secundum  magnam  misericordiam 
tuami 

When  the  monks  reached  the  peristyle  of  the  church  they 
arranged  themselves  in  two  rows  and,  entering,  went  in  pro- 
cession to  the  choir  where  they  knelt  in  their  places,  while 
with  voices  louder  and  yet  more  solemn  they  continued  to 
intone  the  verses  of  the  psalm.  The  music  sounded  in 
accompaniment  to  their  voices ;  that  music  was  the  distant 
roll  of  the  thunder  which  sank  into  murmurs  as  the  tempest 
subsided ;  it  was  the  blowing  of  the  wind  which  groaned  in 
the  hollow  of  the  mountain  ;  it  was  the  monotonous  splash 
of  the  cascade  falling  down  the  crag ;  and  the  drip  of  the 
filtered  waterdrops,  and  the  hoot  of  the  hidden  owl,  and  the 
gliding  sound  of  the  uneasy  reptiles.  All  this  was  in  the 
music,  and  something  more  that  cannot  be  expressed  nor 
scarcely  conceived, — something  more  that  seemed  like  the 
echo  of  an  organ  accompanying  the  verses  of  the  Royal 
Psalmist's  giant  hymn  of  contrition,  with  notes  and  chords 
as  tremendous  as  the  awful  words. 

The  service  proceeded  ;  the  musician  who  witnessed  it, 
absorbed  and  terrified  as  he  was,  believed  himself  to  be  out- 
side the  actual  world,  living  in  that  fantastic  region  of  dreams 


THE  MISERERE  223 

where  all  things  reclothe  themselves  in  phenomenal  and 
alien  forms. 

A  terrible  shock  came  to  rouse  him  from  that  stupor  which 
was  clogging  all  the  faculties  of  his  mind.  His  nerves 
sprang  to  the  thrill  of  a  mighty  emotion,  his  teeth  chattered, 
shaking  with  a  tremor  he  could  in  no  wise  repress,  and  the 
chill  penetrated  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones. 

At  that  instant  the  monks  were  intoning  those  dread  words 
of  the  Miserere  ; 

In  iniquitaiibus  conceptiis  sum  ;  et  in  peccatis  concepit  me 
mater  mea. 

As  the  thunder  of  this  verse  went  rolling  in  sonorous  echo 
from  vault  to  vault,  there  arose  a  terrible  outcry  which  seemed 
a  wail  of  agony  breaking  from  all  humanity  for  its  sense  of 
sin,  a  horrible  wail  made  up  of  all  the  laments  of  the 
unfortunate,  all  the  shrieks  of  despair,  all  the  blasphemies  of 
the  impious,  a  monstrous  consonance,  fit  interpreter  of  those 
who  live  in  sin  and  were  conceived  in  iniquity. 

The  chant  went  on,  now  sad  and  deep,  now  like  a  sunbeam 
which  breaks  through  the  dark  storm  cloud,  succeeding  the 
lightning-flash  of  terror  by  another  flash  of  joy,  until  by 
grace  of  a  sudden  transformation  the  church  stood  re- 
splendent, bathed  in  celestial  light ;  the  skeletons  of  the 
monks  were  again  clothed  in  their  flesh,  about  their  brows 
shone  lustrous  aureoles,  the  roof  vanished  and  above  was 
seen  heaven  like  a  sea  of  light  open  to  the  gaze  of  the 
righteous. 

Seraphim,  archangels,  angels  and  all  the  heavenly  hierarchy 
accompanied  with  a  hymn  of  glory  this  verse,  which  then 
rose  sublime  to  the  throne  of  the  Lord  like  the  rhythmical 
notes  of  a  trumpet,  like  a  colossal  spiral  of  sonorous  incense  : 

Auditui  meo  dabis  gaudium  et  laetitiam,  et  exultabunt  ossa 
humiliata. 

At  this  point  the  dazzling  brightness  blinded  the  pilgrim's 


224  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

eyes,  his  temples  throbbed  violently,  there  was  a  roaring  in 
his  ears,  he  fell  senseless  to  the  ground  and  heard  no  more. 


III. 

On  the  following  day,  the  peaceful  monks  of  the  Abbey 
of  Fitero,  to  whom  the  lay-brother  had  given  an  account  of 
the  strange  visit  of  the  night  before,  saw  the  unknown  pil- 
grim, pallid  and  like  a  man  beside  himself,  entering  their 
doors. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  Miserere  at  last  ?  "  the  lay-brother 
asked  him  with  a  certain  tinge  of  irony,  slyly  casting  a  glance 
of  intelligence  at  his  superiors. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  musician. 

"  And  how  did  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  write  it.  Give  me  a  refuge  in  your  house," 
he  continued,  addressing  the  abbot,  **  a  refuge  and  bread  for 
a  few  months,  and  I  will  leave  you  an  immortal  work  of  art, 
a  Miserere  which  shall  blot  out  my  sins  from  the  sight  of 
God,  eternize  my  memory,  and  with  it  the  memory  of  this 
abbey." 

The  monks,  out  of  curiosity,  counselled  the  abbot  to  grant 
his  request ;  the  abbot,  for  charity,  though  he  believed  the 
man  a  lunatic,  finally  consented  ;  and  the  musician,  thus  in- 
stalled in  the  monastery,  began  his  work. 

Night  and  day  he  labored  with  unremitting  zeal.  In  the 
midst  of  his  task  he  would  pause  and  appear  to  be  listening 
to  something  which  sounded  in  his  imagination  ;  his  pupils 
would  dilate  and  he  would  spring  from  his  seat  exclaiming : 
"  That  is  it ;  so ;  so  ;  no  doubt  about  it — so  I  "  And  he  would 
go  on  writing  notes  with  a  feverish  haste  which  more  than 
once  made  those  who  kept  him  under  secret  observation 
wonder. 

He  wrote  the  first  verses,  and  those  following  to  about  the 


THE  MISERERE  225 

middle  of  the  Psalm  ;  but  when  he  had  written  the  last  verse 
that  he  had  heard  upon  the  mountain,  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  proceed. 

He  made  one,  two,  one  hundred,  two  hundred  rough 
drafts ;  all  in  vain.  His  music  was  not  like  the  music 
already  written.  Sleep  fled  from  his  eyelids,  he  lost  his 
appetite,  fever  seized  upon  his  brain,  he  went  mad,  and 
died,  at  last,  without  being  able  to  finish  the  Miserere,  which, 
as  a  curiosity,  the  monks  treasured  till  his  death,  and  even 
yet  preserve  in  the  archives  of  the  abbey. 

When  the  old  man  had  made  an  end  of  telling  me  this 
story,  I  could  not  refrain  from  turning  my  eyes  again  to  the 
dusty,  ancient  manuscript  of  the  Miserere,  which  still  lay 
upon  one  of  the  tables. 

In  peccatis  concepit  me  mater  mea. 

These  were  the  words  on  the  page  before  me,  seeming  to 
mock  me  with  their  notes,  their  keys  and  their  scrawls  unin- 
telligible to  lay-brothers  in  music. 

I  would  have  given  a  world  to  be  able  to  read  them. 

Who  knows  if  they  may  not  be  mere  nonsense  ? 


\^' 


STRANGE 
I. 

We  were  taking  tea  in  the  house  of  a  lady  who  is  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  the  talk  turned  upon  the  social  dranias  which 
develop  from  act  to  act,  unheeded  of  the  world, — dramas 
with  whose  leading  characters  we  have  been  acquainted,  if 
indeed  we  have  not  ourselves  played  a  part  in  one  or  another 
of  their  scenes. 

Among  numerous  other  persons  whom  I  do  not  remember, 
there  was  a  girl  of  the  blonde  type,  fair  and  slender,  who,  if 
she  had  had  a  lapful  of  flowers  in  place  of  the  blear-eyed 
little  dog  that  growled  half  hidden  in  the  wide  folds  of  her 
skirt,  might  have  been  compared  without  exaggeration  to 
Shakespeare's  Ophelia. 

So  pure  was  the  white  of  her  forehead,  the  azure  of  her 
eyes. 

Conversing  with  the  fair  girl  was  a  young  man,  who  stood 
with  one  hand  resting  on  the  causeuse  of  blue  velvet  where 
she  sat  and  the  other  caressing  the  precious  trinkets  of  his 
gold  chain.  In  his  affected  pronunciation  a  slight  foreign 
accent  was  noticeable,  despite  the  fact  that  his  look  and 
bearing  were  as  Spanish  as  those  of  the  Cid  or  Bernardo 
del  Carpio. 

A  gentleman  of  mature  years,  tall,  thin,  of  distinguished 
and  courteous  manners,  who  seemed  seriously  preoccupied 
with  the  operation  of  sweetening  to  the  exact  point  his  cup 
of  tea,  completed  the  group  nearest  the  fireplace,  in  whose 
warmth  I  sat  down  to  tell  this  human  history.     It  seems 

226 


STRANGE  227 

like  a  fable,  but  it  is  not ;  one  could  make  a  book  of  it ;  I 
have  done  so  several  times  in  imagination.  Nevertheless,  I 
will  tell  it  in  few  words,  since  for  him  to  whom  it  is  given  to 
comprehend  it,  these  few  will  be  more  than  enough. 

Andres,  for  so  the  hero  of  my  tale  was  called,  was  one  of 
those  men  whose  hearts  abound  with  feeling  for  which  they 
have  found  no  outlet,  and  with  love  that  has  no  object  on 
which  to  spend  itself. 

An  orphan  almost  from  his  birth,  he  was  left  in  the  care 
of  relatives.  I  do  not  know  the  details  of  his  childhood ; 
I  can  only  say  that  whenever  it  was  mentioned,  his  face 
would  cloud  and  he  would  exclaim,  with  a  sigh :  "  That  is 
over  now." 

We  all  say  the  same,  sadly  recalling  bygone  joys.  But 
was  this  the  explanation  of  his  words  ?  I  repeat  that  I  do 
not  know ;  but  I  suspect  not. 

As  soon  as  he  was  grown,  he  launched  out  into  the  world. 
Though  I  would  not  calumniate  it,  the  fact  remains  that  the 
world  for  the  poor,  and  especially  for  a  certain  class  of  the 
poor,  is  not  a  Paradise  nor  anything  like  it.  Andres  was, 
as  the  saying  goes,  one  of  those  people  who  rise,  most  days, 
with  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  twenty-four  hours  more. 
Judge  then,  my  readers,  what  would  be  the  state  of  a  spirit 
all  idealism,  all  love,  put  to  the  no  less  difficult  than  prosaic 
task  of  seeking  our  daily  bread. 

Yet  sometimes,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  lonely  bed,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  between  his  hands,  he 
would  exclaim  : 

"If  I  only  had  something  to  love  with  all  my  heart !  A 
wife,  a  horse,  even  a  dog !  " 

As  he  had  not  a  copper  to  spare,  it  was  not  possible  for 
him  to  get  anything, — not  any  object  on  which  to  satisfy  his 
hunger  to  love.  This  waxed  to  such  a  point  that  in  its  acute 
attacks  he  came  to  feel  an  affection  for  the  wretched  closet 


228  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

where  he  slept,  the  scanty  furniture  that  met  his  needs,  his 
very  landlady,  that  patron  saint  who  was  his  evil  genius. 

This  is  not  at  all  surprising  ;  Josephus  relates  that  during 
the  siege  of  Jerusalem  hunger  reached  such  a  point  that 
mothers  devoured  their  children. 

There  came  a  day  when  he  was  able  to  secure  a  very  small 
living  wage.  The  evening  of  that  day,  when  he  was  return- 
ing to  his  boarding-house,  on  crossing  a  narrow  street  he 
heard  a  sort  of  wail,  like  the  crying  of  a  new-born  child. 
He  had  taken  but  a  few  steps  further  after  hearing  those 
doleful  sounds,  when  he  exclaimed,  stopping  short : 

"  What  the  deuce  is  that  ?  " 

And  he  touched  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe  a  soft  object  that 
moved,  and  fell  again  to  mewling  and  whining.  It  was  one 
of  those  new-born  puppies  that  people  cast  out  to  the  mercy 
of  the  rubbish  heap. 

"  Providence  has  placed  it  in  my  path,"  said  Andres  to 
himself,  picking  it  up  and  wrapping  it  in  the  skirt  of  his 
coat ;  and  he  carried  it  to  his  miserable  lodging. 

"  What  now ! "  grumbled  the  landlady  on  seeing  him 
enter  with  the  puppy;  "all  we  needed  was  this  fresh  nui- 
sance in  the  house.  Take  it  back  this  minute  to  where  you 
found  it,  or  else  look  up  new  quarters  for  the  two  of  you  to- 
morrow.*' 

The  next  day  Andres  was  turned  out  of  the  house,  and  in 
the  course  of  two  or  three  months  he  left  some  two  hundred 
more,  for  the  same  reason.  But  for  all  these  inconveniences, 
and  a  thousand  others  which  it  is  impossible  to  detail,  he 
was  richly  compensated  by  the  intelligence  and  affection  of 
the  dog,  with  whom  he  diverted  himself  as  with  a  person  in 
his  long  hours  of  solitude  and  ennui.  They  ate  together, 
they  enjoyed  their  siestas  together,  and  together  they  would 
take  a  turn  in  the  Ronda,  or  go  to  walk  along  the  Cara- 
banchel  road. 


STRANGE  229 

Evening  gatherings,  fashionable  promenades,  theatres, 
cafes,  places  where  dogs  are  not  allowed  or  would  be  in  the 
way,  were  forbidden  to  our  hero,  who  sometimes  exclaimed 
from  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  as  he  responded  to  the 
caresses  of  his  very  own  : 

*•  Doggy  mine  1  you  can  do  everything  but  talk." 

II. 

It  would  be  wearisome  to  explain  how,  but  it  came  to  pass 
that  Andres  somewhat  bettered  his  position,  and  seeing  that 
he  had  money  in  hand,  he  said  : 

"  If  I  only  had  a  wife  1  But  having  a  wife  is  very  ex- 
pensive. Men  like  me,  before  choosing  a  bride,  should  have 
a  paradise  to  offer  her,  and  a  paradise  in  Madrid  is  worth 
as  much  as  a  man's  eye. — If  I  could  buy  a  horse  1  A  horse  1 
There  is  no  animal  more  noble  or  more  beautiful.  How  he 
would  love  my  dog  1  what  merry  times  they  would  have  with 
each  other,  and  I  with  both  !  " 

One  afternoon  he  went  to  the  bullfight,  and  before  the 
entertainment  began,  he  unpremeditatedly  strolled  out  into 
the  court-yard,  where  the  horses  who  had  to  take  part  in  the 
contest  were  waiting,  already  saddled. 

I  do  not  know  whether  my  readers  have  ever  had  the 
curiosity  to  go  and  see  them.  For  myself,  without  claiming 
to  be  as  tender-hearted  as  the  protagonist  of  this  tale,  I  can 
assure  you  that  I  have  often  had  a  mind  to  buy  them  all. 
So  great  was  the  pity  that  I  felt  for  them. 

Andres  could  not  fail  to  experience  a  most  grievous  sen- 
sation on  finding  himself  in  this  place.  Some  of  the  horses, 
with  drooping  heads,  creatures  all  skin  and  bone,  their 
manes  rough  and  dirty,  were  standing  motionless,  awaiting 
their  turn,  as  if  they  had  a  foreboding  of  the  dreadful 
death  which  would  put  an  end,  within   a  few  hours,  to  that 


230  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

miserable  life  of  theirs  ;  others,  half  blind,  were  sniffing 
about  for  the  rack  and  eating,  or,  tearing  the  ground  with 
the  hoof  and  snorting  wildly,  were  struggling  to  pull  them- 
selves loose  and  flee  from  the  peril  which  they  scented  with 
horror.  And  all  those  animals  had  been  young  and  beautiful. 
What  aristocratic  hands  had  patted  their  necks  I  What 
affectionate  voices  had  urged  on  their  speed  !  And  now  all 
was  blows  from  one  side,  oaths  from  the  other,  and  death  at 
last,  death  in  terrible  agony  accompanied  by  jests  and  hisses  ! 

"If  they  think  at  all,"  said  Andres,  "what  will  these 
animals  think  at  the  core  of  their  dim  intelligence,  when  in 
the  middle  of  the  ring  they  bite  their  tongues  and  expire 
with  a  frightful  spasm?  Truly  the  ingratitude  of  man  is 
sometimes  inconceivable." 

He  was  startled  out  of  those  reflections  by  the  rough  voice 
of  one  of  \\\Q  picadores^  who  was  swearing  and  cursing  while 
he  tested  the  legs  of  one  of  the  horses,  striking  the  butt-end  of 
his  lance  against  the  wall.  The  horse  did  not  seem  entirely 
contemptible ;  apparently  it  was  crazy  or  had  some  mortal 
disease. 

Andre's  thought  of  buying  it.  As  for  the  cost,  it  ought 
not  to  cost  much ;  but  how  about  its  keep  ?  The  picador 
plunged  the  spur  into  its  flank  and  started  to  ride  toward  the 
gate  of  the  ring;  our. youth  wavered  for  an  instant  and  then 
stopped  him.  How  he  did  it,  I  do  not  know ;  but  in  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  induced  the  horseman  to 
leave  the  beast  behind,  had  hunted  up  the  contractor,  made 
his  .bargain  for  the  horse  and  taken  it  away. 

I  suppose  it  is  superfluous  to  say  that  on  that  afternoon 
he  did  not  see  the  bullfight. 

He  led  off  the  horse  in  triumph ;  but  the  horse,  in  fact, 
was  or  appeared  to  be  crazy. 

"  Use  plenty  of  stick  on  him,"  said  one  authority. 

"Don't  give  him  much  to  eat,"  advised  a  blacksmith. 


STRANGE  23  T 

The  horse  was  still  unruly.  "  Bah  1  "  at  last  exclaimed 
his  owner.  "  Let  him  eat  what  he  likes  and  do  as  he  chooses." 
The  horse  was  not  old,  and  now  began  to  fatten  and  grow 
more  docile.  It  is  true  that  he  still  had  his  whims,  and  that 
nobody  but  Andres  could  mount  him  ;  but  his  master  said : 
"  So  I  shall  not  be  teased  to  lend  him ;  and  as  for  his  oddi- 
ties, each  of  us  will  get  accustomed  to  those  of  the  other." 
And  they  came  to  such  a  good  understanding  that  Andres 
knew  when  the  horse  felt  like  doing  a  thing  and  when  not, 
and  as  for  the  horse,  the  voice  of  his  master  was  enough  to 
make  him  take  a  leap,  stand  still,  or  set  off  at  a  gallop,  sw'ift 
as  a  hurricane. 

Of  the  dog  w^e  need  say  nothing ;  he  came  to  be  so  friendly 
with  his  new  comrade  that  neither  could  go  out,  even  to  drink, 
without  the  other.  From  this  time  on,  when  Andres  set  off 
at  a  gallop  in  a  cloud  of  dust  on  the  Carabanchel  road,  with 
his  dog  frisking  along  beside  him,  dashing  ahead  to  turn 
back  and  hunt  for  him,  or  letting  him  pass  to  scamper 
up  and  overtake  him,  he  believed  himself  the  happiest 
of  men. 

Time  went  by  ;  our  young  man  was  rich,  or  almost  rich. 

One  day,  after  a  long  gallop,  he  alighted,  tired  out,  near 
a  tree  and  stretched  himself  in  its  shade. 

It  was  a  spring  day,  bright  and  blue, — one  of  those  days 
in  which  men  breathe  voluptuously  the  warm  air  impreg- 
nated with  passion,  in  which  the  blowing  of  the  wind  comes 
to  the  ear  like  distant  harmonies,  in  which  the  clear  horizons 
are  outlined  in  gold,  and  there  float  before  our  eyes  shining 
motes  of  I  know  not  what,  motes  like  transparent  forms  that 
follow  us,  encompass  us  and  intoxicate  us  with  sadness  and 
with  happiness  at  once. 

"  I  dearly  love  these  two  beings,"  exclaimed  Andres  as 
he  reclined  there  stroking  his  dog  with  one  hand  and  with 
the  other  giving  to  his  horse  a  handful  of  grass,  "  dearly ; 


232  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

but  yet  there  is  a  vacancy  in  my  heart  which  has  never  been 
filled  ;  I  still  have  it  in  me  to  lavish  a  love  greater,  holier, 
purer.     Decidedly  I  need  a  wife." 

At  that  moment  there  passed  along  the  road  a  yoimg  girl 
with  a  water- jar  upon  her  head. 

Andres  was  not  thirsty,  but  yet  he  begged  a  drink  of 
water.  The  girl  stopped  to  offer  it  to  him,  and  did  so  with 
such  gentle  grace  that  our  youth  comprehended  perfectly 
one  of  the  most  patriarchal  episodes  of  the  Bible. 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  he  asked  when  he  had  drunk. 

"  Placida." 

*'  And  what  do  you  do  with  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  merchant  who  died  ruined  and 
persecuted  for  his  political  opinions.  After  his  death,  my 
mother  and  I  retired  to  a  hamlet,  where  we  get  on  very 
badly  with  a  pension  of  three  reales  [fifteen  cents  a  day]  for 
all  our  living.  My  mother  is  ill,  and  everything  comes  on 
me." 

"  And  why  haven't  you  married  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  in  the  village  they  say  that  I  am  good  for 
nothing  about  work,  that  I  am  very  delicate,  very  much  the 
senorita.^^ 

The  girl,  with  a  courteous  good-bye,  moved  away. 

While  she  was  still  in  sight,  Andres  watched  her  retreating 
form  in  silence ;  when  she  was  lost  to  view,  he  said  with  the 
satisfaction  of  one  who  solves  a  problem : 

"  This  is  the  woman  for  me." 

He  mounted  his  horse  and,  followed  by  his  dog,  took  his 
way  to  the  village.  He  promptly  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  mother  and,  almost  as  soon,  utterly  lost  his  heart  to  the 
daughter.  When  at  the  end  of  a  few  months  she  was  left 
an  orphan,  he  married  her,  a  man  in  love  with  his  wife, 
which  is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  life  affords. 

To  marry,  and  to  set  up  housekeeping  in  a  country  man- 


STRANGE  233 

sion    situated  in  one  of  the  most  picturesque  spots  of  his 
native  land,  was  the  work  of  a  few  days. 

When  he  saw  himself  in  this  residence,  rich,  with  his  wife, 
his  dog  and  his  horse,  he  had  to  rub  his  eyes ;  he  thought 
he  must  be  dreaming.  So  happy,  so  perfectly  happy  was 
poor  Andres. 

IV. 

So  he  lived  for  a  period  of  several  years,  in  divine  bliss, 
when  one  afternoon  he  thought  he  noticed  that  some  one 
was  prowling  about  his  house,  and  later  he  surprised  a  man 
fitting  his  eye  to  the  key-hole  of  one  of  the  garden- 
doors. 

"  There  are  robbers  about,"  he  said.  And  he  determined 
to  inform  the  nearest  town,  where  there  was  a  brace  of  civil 
guards. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  asked  his  wife. 

"  To  the  town." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  To  inform  the  civil  guards  that  I  suspect  some  one  is 
prowling  about  our  house." 

When  his  wife  heard  that,  she  paled  slightly.  He,  giving 
her  a  kiss,  continued  : 

"  I  am  going  on  foot,  for  it  is  not  far.  Good-bye  till  I 
come  again." 

On  passing  through  the  court-yard  to  reach  the  gate,  he 
stepped  into  the  stable  a  moment,  looked  his  horse  over  and, 
patting  him,  said : 

"  Good-bye,  old  fellow,  good-bye  ;  to-day  you  shall  rest, 
for  yesterday  I  put  you  to  your  paces." 

The  horse,  who  was  accustomed  to  go  out  every  day  with 
his  master,  whinnied  sadly  on  hearing  him  depart. 

When  Andres  was  about  to  leave  the  premises,  the  dog 
began  to  frolic  for  joy. 


234 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


**  No,  you  are  not  coming  with  me,"  he  exclaimed,  speak- 
ing as  if  the  dog  would  understand.  "  When  you  go  to  the 
town,  you  bark  at  the  boys  and  chase  the  hens,  and  some 
fine  day  somebody  will  give  you  such  a  blow  that  you  will 
have  no  spirit  left  to  go  back  for.  another.  Don't  let  him 
out  until  I  am  gone,"  he  continued,  addressing  a  servant, 
and  he  shut  the  gate  that  the  dog  might  not  follow  him. 

He  had  taken  the  turn  in  the  road  before  he  ceased  hear- 
ing the  prolonged  howls. 

He  went  to  the  town,  despatched  his  business,  had  a 
pleasant  half-hour  with  the  alcalde^  chatting  of  this  and  that, 
and  returned  home.  On  reaching  the  neighborhood  of  his 
estate,  he  was  greatly  surprised  that  the  dog  did  not  come 
out  to  welcome  him,  the  dog  that  on  other  occasions,  as  if 
aware  of  his  movements,  would  meet  him  half  way  down  the 
road. — He  whistles — no  response!  He  enters  the  outer 
gates.  Not  a  servant !  "  What  the  deuce  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  ?  "  he  exclaims  disquieted,  and  proceeds  to  the 
house. 

Arrived,  he  enters  the  court.  The  first  sight  that  meets 
his  eyes  is  the  dog  stretched  in  a  pool  of  blood  at  the  stable 
door.  A  few  pieces  of  cloth  scattered  over  the  ground, 
some  threads  still  hanging  from  his  jaws,  covered  with  crim- 
son foam,  witness  that  he  made  a  good  defence  and  that  in 
the  defence  he  had  received  the  wounds  so  thick  upon  him. 

Andres  calls  him  by  his  name  ;  the  dying  dog  half  opens 
his  eyes,  tries  in  vain  to  get  upon  his  feet,  feebly  wags  his 
tail,  licks  the  hand  that  caresses  him,  and  dies. 

"  My  horse  1  where  is  my  horse  ?  "  then  exclaimed  Andres 
with  a  voice  hoarse  and  stifled  by  emotion,  as  he  saw  the 
stall  empty  and  the  halter  broken. 

He  dashes  thence  like  a  madman  ;  he  calls  his  wife, — no 
answer ;  his  servants, — nothing.  Beside  himself,  he  rushes 
over  the  whole  house, — vacant,  abandoned.     Again  he  goes 


STRANGE  235 

out  to  the  street,  sees  the  hoof-marks  of  his  horse,  his  own, 
— no  doubt  of  it, — for  he  knows,  or  thinks  he  knows,  even  the 
tracks  of  his  cherished  animal. 

"  I  understand  it  all,"  he  says,  as  if  illumined  by  a  sudden 
idea.  "  The  robbers  have  taken  advantage  of  my  absence 
to  accomplish  their  design,  and  they  are  carrying  off  my 
wife  to  exact  of  me  for  her  ransom  a  great  sum  of  money. 
Money !  my  blood,  my  soul's  salvation,  would  I  give  for  her. 
— My  poor  dog  1  "  he  exclaims,  returning  to  look  at  him,  and 
then  he  starts  forth  running  like  a  man  out  of  his  wits, 
following  the  direction  of  the  hoof-prints. 

And  he  ran,  he  ran  without  resting  for  an  instant  after 
those  tracks  ;  one  hour,  two,  three. 

"  Have  you  seen,"  he  asked  of  everybody,  "  a  man  on 
horseback  with  a  woman  on  the  crupper  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  they  answered. 

"  Which  way  did  they  go  ?  " 

"  That  way." 

And  Andres  would  gather  fresh  force  and  keep  on  running. 

The  night  commenced  to  fall.  To  the  same  question  he 
had  ever  the  same  reply  ;  and  he  ran,  and  he  ran,  until  at 
last  he  discerned  a  village,  and  near  the  entrance,  at  the  foot 
of  a  cross  which  marked  the  point  where  the  road  divided 
into  two,  he  saw  a  group  of  people,  laborers,  old  men,  boys, 
who  were  regarding  with  curiosity  something  that  he  could 
not  distinguish. 

He  arrives,  puts  the  same  question  as  ever,  and  one  of 
the  group  says  : 

"  Yes,  we  have  had  sight  of  that  pair ;  look !  for  a  clearer 
trace  see  the  horse  that  carried  them,  who  fell  here  ruptured 
with  running." 

Andres  turns  his  eyes  in  the  direction  they  indicated,  and 
indeed  sees  his  horse,  his  beloved  horse,  which  some  men 
of  the  place  were  preparing  to  flay  for  the   sake  of  its  hide. 


236  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

He  could  scarcely  resist  his  grief,  but  recovering  himself,  he 
turned  again  to  the  thought  of  his  wife. 

*'  And  tell  me,"  he  exclaimed  impetuously ;  "  how  you 
failed  to  render  aid  to  that  woman  in  distress." 

"  And  didn't  we  aid  her !  "  said  another  of  the  circle. 
"  Didn't  I  sell  them  another  saddle-horse  so  that  they  might 
press  on  their  way  with  all  the  speed  that  seemed  so  im- 
portant to  them  1  " 

"  But,"  interrupted  Andres,  "  that  woman  was  stolen  away 
by  force ;  that  man  is  a  bandit,  who,  regardless  of  her  tears 
and  her  laments,  drags  her  I  know  not  whither," 

The  sly  rustics  exchanged  glances  and  compassionate 
smiles. 

"  Not  so,  senorito  !  what  tales  are  you  telling  us  ?  "  slowly 
continued  the  man  with  whom  he  was  talking.  "  Stolen 
away  by  force  1  But  how  if  it  were  she  herself  who  said 
with  the  greatest  earnestness  :  '  Quick,  quick,  let  us  flee  from 
this  district !  I  shall  not  be  at  rest  until  it  is  out  of  my 
sight  forever.'  " 

Andres  comprehended  all ;  a  cloud  of  blood  passed  before 
his  eyes — eyes  which  shed  no  tear,  and  he  fell  to  the  earth 
prone  as  the  dead. 

He  went  mad ;  in  a  few  days,  he  died. 

There  was  an  autopsy  ;  no  organic  trouble  was  found. 
Ah  I  if  it  were  possible  to  dissect  the  soul,  how  many  deaths 
similar  to  this  would  be  explained  1 

*•  And  did  he  actually  die  of  that  ?  "  exclaimed  the  youth, 
who  was  still  playing  with  the  charms  that  hung  from  his 
watch  chain,  as  I  finished  my  story. 

I  glanced  at  him  as  if  to  say :  "  Does  it  seem  to  you  so 
little  ?  "  He  continued  with  a  certain  air  of  profundity  : 
"Strange!  I  know  what  it  is  to  suffer;  when  in  the  last 
races  my  Herminia  stumbled,  killed  the  jockey  and  broke  a 


STRANGE  237 

leg,  the  misfortune  of  that  animal  vexed  me  horribly ;  but, 
frankly,  not  so  much  as  that — not  so  much  as  that." 

I  was  still  regarding  him  with  astonishment,  when  I  heard 
a  melodious  and  slightly  veiled  voice,  the  voice  of  the  girl 
with  the  azure  eyes. 

"  Strange,  indeed  !  I  love  my  Medoro  dearly,"  she  said, 
dropping  a  kiss  on  the  snout  of  the  sluggish  and  blear-eyed 
lap-dog,  who  gave  a  little  grunt,  "  but  if  he  should  die,  or 
somebody  should  kill  him,  I  do  not  believe  that  I  would  go 
mad  nor  anything  like  it." 

My  astonishment  was  passing  into  stupefaction ;  these 
people  had  not  understood  me,  nor  wished  to  understand  me. 

Finally  I  turned  to  the  gentleman  who  was  taking  tea,  for 
at  his  years  he  might  be  expected  to  be  somewhat  more 
reasonable. 

"  And  you  ?  how  does  it  seem  to  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  married  ;  I  loved 
my  wife  ;  I  have,  it  seems  to  me,  a  regard  for  her  still ;  there 
came  up  between  us  a  domestic  unpleasantness,  that  by  its 
publicity  forced  me  to  demand  satisfaction ;  a  duel  followed  ; 
I  had  the  good  luck  to  wound  my  adversary,  an  excellent 
fellow,  as  full  of  jest  and  wit  as  any  man  alive,  with  whom  I 
am  still  in  the  habit  of  taking  coffee  occasionally  in  the 
Iberia.  Since  then  I  have  ceased  to  live  with  my  wife,  and 
have  devoted  myself  to  travel. — When  I  am  in  Madrid,  I 
stay  with  her  as  a  friend  visiting  a  friend;  and  all  this  has 
taken  place  without  any  violent  passions,  without  any  great 
emotions,  without  any  extraordinary  sufferings.  After  this 
slight  sketch  of  my  character  and  of  my  life,  what  shall  I  say 
to  you  about  these  phenomenal  explosions  of  feeling  except 
that  all  this  seems  to  me  strange,  very  strange  ? " 

When  he  had  finished  speaking,  the  blonde  girl  and  the 
young  man  who  was  making  love  to  her  looked  over  together 
an  album  of  Gabarni's  caricatures.     In  those  few  moments 


238  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

the  elder  gentleman  treated  himself  with  exquisite  enjoyment 
to  his  third  cup  of  tea. 

When  I  called  to  mind  that  on  hearing  the  outcome  of 
my  story  they  all  had  said — Strange ! — I  for  my  part  ex- 
claimed to  myself — Natural! 


WITHERED  LEAVES 

The  sun  had  set.  The  wheeling  masses  of  cloud  were 
hastening  to  heap  themselves  one  above  another  in  the  dis- 
tant horizon.  The  cold  wind  of  autumn  evenings  was  whirl- 
ing the  withered  leaves  about  my  feet. 

I  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  a  road  [the  road  to  the  ceme- 
tery] where  ever  there  return  fewer  than  those  who  go. 

I  do  not  know  of  what  I  was  thinking,  if,  indeed,  I  was 
just  then  thinking  of  anything  at  all.  My  soul  was  trem- 
bling on  the  point  of  soaring  into  space,  as  the  bird  trembles 
and  flutters  its  wings  before  taking  flight. 

There  are  moments  in  which,  thanks  to  a  series  of 
abstractions,  the  spirit  withdraws  from  its  environment  and, 
self-absorbed,  analyzes  and  comprehends  the  mysterious 
phenomena  of  the  inner  life  of  man. 

There  are  other  moments  in  which  the  soul  slips  free  from 
the  flesh,  loses  its  personality,  mingles  with  the  elements  of 
nature,  relates  itself  to  their  mode  of  being  and  translates 
their  incomprehensible  language. 

In  one  of  these  latter  moments  was  I,  when,  alone  and  in 
the  midst  of  a  clear  tract  of  level  ground,  I  heard  talking 
near  me. 

The  speakers  were  two  withered  leaves,  and  this,  a  little 
more  or  less  exact,  was  their  strange  dialogue : 

"  Whence  comest  thou,  sister  ?  " 

"  I  come  from  riding  on  the  whirlwind,  enveloped  in  the 
cloud  of  dust  and  of  withered  leaves,  our  companions,  all  the 
length  of  the  interminable  plain.     And  thou  ?  " 

"  I  drifted  for  a  time  with  the  current  of  the  river,  until 
239 


240  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

the  strong  south  wind  snatched  me  up  from  the  mud  and 
reeds  of  the  bank." 

"  And  whither  bound  ?  " 

"  I  know  not.  Doth  perchance  the  wind  that  driveth 
me  know  ? " 

"  Woe  is  me  !  Who  would  have  said  that  we  should  end 
like  this,  faded  and  withered,  dragging  ourselves  along  the 
ground — we  who  lived  clothed  in  color  and  light,  dancing  in 
the  air  ?  " 

"  Rememberest  thou  the  beautiful  days  of  our  budding — 
that  peaceful  morning  when,  at  the  breaking  of  the  swollen 
sheath  which  had  served  us  for  a  cradle,  we  unfolded  to  the 
gentle  kiss  of  the  sun,  like  a  fan  of  emeralds? " 

"  Oh,  how  sweet  it  was  to  be  swayed  at  that  height  by  the 
breeze,  drinking  in  through  every  pore  the  air  and  the  light !  " 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  was  to  watch  the  flowing  water  of 
the  river  that  lapped  the  twisted  roots  of  the  ancient  tree 
which  sustained  us,  that  limpid,  transparent  water,  reflecting 
like  a  mirror  the  azure  of  the  sky,  so  that  we  seemed  to  live 
suspended  between  two  blue  abysses !  " 

"  With  what  delight  we  used  to  peep  over  the  green  foliage 
to  see  ourselves  pictured  in  the  tremulous  stream  I  " 

"  How  we  would  sing  together,  imitating  the  murmur  of 
the  breeze  and  following  the  rhythm  of  the  waves !  " 

"  Brilliant  insects  would  flit  about  us,  spreading  their  gauzy 
wings." 

♦'  And  the  white  butterflies  and  blue  dragon-flies,  gyrating 
in  strange  circles  through  the  air,  would  alight  for  a  moment 
on  our  dentate  edges  to  tell  each  other  the  secrets  of  that 
mysterious  love  lasting  but  an  instant  and  burning  up  their 
lives." 

"  Each  of  us  was  a  note  in  the  concert  of  the  groves." 

"  Each  of  us  was  a  tone  in  their  harmony  of  color." 

"  In  the  silver  nights  when  the  moonbeams  glided  over 


i 


WITHERED  LEA  VES  241 

the  mountain  tops,  dost  remember  how  we  would  chat  in 
low  voices  amid  the  translucent  shadows  ?  " 

"And  we  would  relate  in  soft  whispers  stories  of  the 
sylphs  who  swing  in  the  golden  threads  that  the  spiders 
hang  from  tree  to  tree." 

"  Until  we  hushed  our  murmurous  speech  to  listen  enrap- 
tured to  the  plaints  of  the  nightingale,  who  had  chosen  our 
tree  for  her  throne  of  song." 

"  And  so  sad  and  so  tender  were  her  lamenting  strains 
that,  though  filled  with  joy  to  hear  her,  the  dawn  found  us 
weeping." 

"Oh,  how  sweet  were  those  tears  which  the  dew  of  night 
would  shed  upon  us,  and  which  would  sparkle  with  all  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow  in  the  first  gleam  of  dawn  !  " 

"  Then  came  the  jocund  flock  of  linnets  to  pour  into  the 
grove  life  and  sound  with  the  gleeful,  gay  confusion  of  their 
songs." 

"  And  one  enamoured  pair  hung  close  to  us  their  round 
nest  of  straws  and  feathers." 

"  We  served  to  shelter  the  little  ones  from  the  trouble- 
some rain-drops  in  the  summer  tempests." 

•'  We  served  as  a  canopy  to  shield  them  from  the  fierce 
rays  of  the  sun." 

"  Our  life  passed  like  a  golden  dream  from  which  we  had 
no  thought  there  could  be  an  awakening," 

''  One  beautiful  afternoon,  when  everything  around  us 
seemed  to  smile,  when  the  setting  sun  was  kindling  the  west 
and  crimsoning  the  clouds,  and  from  the  earth,  touched  by 
the  evening  damp,  were  rising  exhalations  of  life  and  the 
perfumes  of  flowers,  two  lovers  stayed  their  steps  on  the 
river  bank  at  the  foot  of  our  parent  tree." 

"  Never  will  that  memor)^  fade  !  She  was  young,  scarcely 
more  than  a  child,  beautiful  and  pallid.  He  asked  her 
tenderly,  *  Why  weepest  thou  ? '     '  Forgive  this  involuntary 


242  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

selfishness,'  she  replied,  brushing  away  a  tear;  'I  weep  for 
myself ;  I  weep  for  the  life  which  is  slipping  from  me.  When 
the  sky  is  crowned  with  sunshine  and  the  earth  is  clothed 
with  verdure  and  flowers,  and  the  wind  is  laden  with  per- 
fumes, with  the  songs  of  birds  and  with  far-off  harmonies, 
and  when  one  loves  and  feels  herself  beloved,  life  is  good.' 
*  And  why  wilt  thou  not  live  ? '  he  insisted,  deeply  moved, 
clasping  her  hands  close  in  his.  *  Because  I  cannot.  When 
these  leaves,  which  whisper  in  unison  above  our  heads,  fall 
withered,  I,  too,  shall  die,  and  the  wind  will  some  day  bear 
away  their  dust,  and  mine — whither,  who  knoweth  ? '  " 

"I  heard,  and  thou  did'st  hear,  and  we  shuddered  and 
were  silent.  We  must  wither !  We  must  die,  and  be  whirled 
about  by  the  rushing  wind!  Mute  and  full  of  terror  we 
remained  even  till  nightfall.     O,  how  terrible  was  that  night !  " 

"  For  the  first  time  the  love-lorn  nightingale  failed  at  the 
tryst  which  she  had  enchanted  with  her  mournful  lays." 

"  Soon  the  birds  flew  away,  and  with  them  their  little  ones 
now  clothed  with  plumage,  and  only  the  nest  remained, 
rocking  slowly  and  sadly,  like  the  empty  cradle  of  a  dead 
child." 

*j  And  the  white  butterflies  and  the  blue  dragonflies  fled, 
leaving  their  place  to  obscure  insects  which  came  to  eat 
away  our  fibre  and  to  deposit  in  our  bosoms  their  nauseous 
larvae." 

"  Oh,  and  how  we  shivered,  shrinking  from  the  icy  touch 
of  the  night  frosts  !  " 

"  We  lost  our  color  and  freshness." 

"  We  lost  our  pliancy  and  grace,  and  what  before  had 
been  to  us  like  the  soft  sound  of  kisses,  like  the  murmur  of 
love  words,  now  became  a  harsh,  dry  call,  unwelcome, 
dismal." 

"And  at  last,  dislodged,  we  flew  away." 

"  Trodden  under  foot  by  the  careless  passers-by,  whirled 


WITHERED  LEA  VES 


243 


incessantly  from  one  point  to  another  in  the  dust  and  the 
mire,  I  accounted  myself  happy  when  I  could  rest  for  an 
instant  in  the  deep  rut  of  a  road." 

"  I  have  revolved  unceasingly  in  the  grip  of  the  turbid 
stream ;  and  in  the  course  of  my  long  travels  I  saw,  alone, 
in  mourning  garb  and  with  clouded  brow,  gazing  absently 
upon  the  running  waters  and  the  withered  leaves  which 
shared  and  marked  their  movement,  one  of  those  two  lovers 
whose  words  gave  us  our  first  presentment  of  death." 

"  She,  too,  has  lost  her  hold  on  life,  and  perchance  will 
sleep  in  an  open,  new-made  grave  over  which  I  paused  a 
moment." 

"  Ah,  she  sleeps  and  rests  at  last ;  but  we,  when  shall  we 
come  to  the  end  of  our  long  journey  ?  " 

"  Never  1 — Even  now  the  wind,  which  has  given  us  a 
brief  repose,  blows  once  more,  and  I  feel  myself  constrained 
to  rise  from  the  ground  and  follow.     Adieu,  sister !  " 

"  Adieu !  " 

The  wind,  quiet  for  a  moment,  whistled  again,  and  the 
leaves  rose  in  a  whirling  confusion,  to  be  lost  afar  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night. 

And  then  there  came  to  me  a  thought  that  I  cannot  re- 
member and  that,  even  though  I  were  to  remember  it,  I 
could  find  no  words  to  utter. 


THE  SET  OF  EMERALDS 

We  were  pausing  on  the  Street  of  San  Jer6nimo,  in  front 
of  Durin's  and  were  reading  the  title  of  a  book  by  Mery. 

As  my  attention  was  called  to  that  extraordinary  title,  and 
as  I  spoke  of  it  to  the  friend  who  accompanied  me,  he,  lean- 
ing lightly  on  my  arm,  exclaimed  :  "  The  day  could  not  be 
more  beautiful.  Let  us  take  a  turn  by  the  Fuente  Castellana. 
While  we  are  walking,  I  will  tell  you  a  story  in  which  I  am 
the  principal  hero.  You  will  see  how,  after  hearing  it,  you 
will  not  only  understand  this  title,  but  will  find  its  explanation 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world." 

I  had  plenty  to  do  ;  but  as  I  am  always  glad  of  an  excuse 
for  doing  nothing,  I  accepted  the  proposition,  and  my  friend 
began  his  story  as  follows  : 

"  Some  time  ago,  one  night  when  I  had  set  out  to  stroll 
the  streets,  without  any  more  definite  object, — after  having 
examined  all  the  collections  of  prints  and  photographs  in  the 
shop-windows,  after  having  chosen  in  imagination  in  front 
of  the  Savoyard  store  the  bronzes  with  which  I  would  adorn 
my  house,  if  I  had  one,  after  having  made  a  minute  survey, 
in  fine,  of  all  the  objects  of  art  and  luxury  exposed  to  public 
view  upon  the  shelves  behind  the  lighted  plate-glass,  I  stopped 
a  moment  before  Samper's. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  it  was  that  I  remained  there, 
adorning,  in  fancy,  all  the  pretty  women  I  know,  one  with  a 
collar  of  pearls,  another  with  a  cross  of  diamonds,  another 
with  ear-rings  of  amethyst  and  gold.  I  was  deliberating  at 
that  point  to  whom  to  offer — who  would  be  worthy  of  it — a 
magnificent  set  of  emeralds  as  rich  as  it  was  elegant,  which 

244 


THE  SET  OF  EMERALDS  245 

among  all  the  other  jewelled  ornaments  claimed  attention  for 
the  beauty  and  clearness  of  its  stones,  when  I  heard  at  my 
side  the  softest,  sweetest  voice  exclaim  with  an  accent  which 
could  not  fail  to  put  my  fancies  to  flight :  *  What  beautiful 
emeralds  I ' 

"  I  turned  my  head  in  the  direction  of  that  voice,  a  woman's 
voice,  for  only  so  could  it  have  left  such  an  echo,  and  I  con- 
fronted, in  fact,  a  woman  supremely  beautiful.  I  could  look 
at  her  only  a  moment,  and  yet  her  loveliness  made  on  me  a 
profound  impression. 

"  At  the  door  of  the  jeweller's  shop  from  which  she  had 
come  out,  there  was  a  carriage.  She  was  accompanied  by 
a  lady  of  mature  age,  too  young  to  be  her  mother,  too  old  to 
be  her  friend.  When  both  had  entered  the  coupk,  the  horses 
started,  and  I  stood  like  a  fool  staring  after  her  until  she 
was  lost  to  sight. 

"  '  What  beautiful  emeralds  ! '  she  had  said.  The  emeralds 
were  indeed  superb.  That  collar,  around  her  snowy  neck, 
would  look  like  a  garland  of  young  almond  leaves  besprent 
with  dew ;  that  brooch  upon  her  bosorrt,  a  lotus-flower  when 
it  sways  on  its  pulsing  wave,  crowned  with  foam.  *  What 
beautiful  emeralds  1 '  Would  she  like  them,  perhaps  ?  And 
if  she  would  like  them,  why  not  have  them  ?  She  must  be 
rich,  a  lady  of  high  rank.  She  has  an  elegant  carriage,  and 
on  the  door  of  that  carriage  I  thought  I  saw  a  crest.  Doubt- 
less in  the  life  of  this  woman  there  is  some  mystery. 

"  These  were  the  thoughts  that  agitated  my  mind  after  I 
lost  sight  of  her, — when  not  even  the  sound  of  her  carriage 
wheels  came  to  my  ears.  And  truly  there  was  in  her  life, 
apparently  so  peaceful  and  enviable,  a  horrible  mystery.  I 
found  it  out — I  will  not  tell  you  how. 

"  Married  when  a  mere  child  to  a  profligate  who,  after 
squandering  his  own  fortune,  had  sought  a  profitable  alliance, 
as  the  best  means  of  squandering  another's,  that  woman,  a 


246 


ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 


model  of  wives  and  mothers,  had  refused  to  gratify  the  least 
of  her  caprices  that  she  might  save  some  part  of  her  inherit- 
ance for  her  daughter  and  that  she  might  maintain  in  outer 
appearance  the  dignity  of  her  house  at  the  height  which  it 
had  always  held  in  Spanish  society. 

**  People  tell  of  some  women's  great  sacrifices.  I  believe 
that,  considering  their  peculiar  organization,  there  is  none 
comparable  with  the  sacrifice  of  an  ardent  desire  in  which 
vanity  and  coquetry  are  concerned. 

'*  From  the  time  when  I  penetrated  the  mystery  of  her 
life,  all  my  aspirations,  through  one  of  these  freakish 
enthusiasms  of  my  character,  were  reduced  to  this  only, — to 
get  possession  of  that  marvellous  set  of  jewels  and  to  give 
it  to  her  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  not  refuse  it,  nor  even 
know  from  whose  hand  it  might  have  come. 

"  Among  other  difficulties  which  I  at  once  encountered 
in  the  realization  of  my  idea,  assuredly  not  the  least  was 
that  I  had  not  money,  neither  much  nor  little,  to  buy  the 
gems. 

"  Yet  I  did  not  despair. 

**  *  Where  shall  I  look  for  money  ?  *  I  said  to  myself,  and 
I  remembered  the  marvels  of  The  Thousand  and  One  Nights; 
those  cabalistic  words  at  whose  echo  the  earth  opened  and 
revealed  hidden  treasures ;  those  rods  of  such  rare  virtue 
that,  when  rocks  were  smitten  by  them,  there  bubbled  from 
the  clefts  not  a  spring  of  water,  which  was  a  small  miracle, 
but  rubies,  topazes,  pearls  and  diamonds. 

"  Being  ignorant  of  the  words  and  not  knowing  where  to 
find  a  rod,  I  decided  at  last  to  write  a  book  and  sell  it.  To 
get  money  out  of  the  rock  of  a  publisher  is  nothing  short  of 
miraculous  ;  but  I  did  it. 

'*  I  wrote  a  book  of  original  quality,  which  few  people 
liked,  as  only  one  person  could  understand  it ;  for  the  rest 
it  was  merely  a  collection  of  phrases. 


A    SENORITA 
From  the  painting  by  F.  Goya 


55^»t3^ 


THE 


_  OF 


THE  SET  OF  EMERALDS  247 

"  The  book  was  entitled  The  Set  of  Emeralds^  and  I  signed 
it  with  my  initials  only. 

"  Since  I  am  not  Victor  Hugo,  nor  anybody  of  the  sort, 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  did  not  get  for  my  novel  what  the 
author  of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  had  for  his  latest ;  but  what 
with  one  thing  and  another  I  gathered  together  a  sufiBcient 
sum  to  begin  my  plan  of  campaign. 

"  The  emeralds  in  question  would  be  worth  from  fourteen 
to  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  and  toward  the  purchase  I  now 
counted  up  the  respectable  sum  of  one  hundred  and  fifty. 
It  was  necessary,  then,  to  game. 

"  I  gamed ;  and  I  gamed  with  such  good  sense  and  good 
fortune  that  in  a  single  night  I  won  what  I  needed. 

"  Apropos  of  gambling,  I  have  made  an  observation  in 
which  every  day  has  confirmed  me  more  and  more.  If  one 
puts  down  his  money  with  the  full  expectation  of  winning, 
he  wins.  One  must  not  approach  the  green  table  with  the 
hesitancy  of  a  man  who  is  going  to  try  his  luck,  but  with 
the  coolness  of  him  who  comes  to  take  his  own.  For  myself, 
I  can  assure  you  that  I  should  have  been  as  much  surprised 
to  lose  that  night  as  if  a  substantial  bank  had  refused  me 
money  on  a  check  with  Rothschild's  signature. 

"  The  next  day  I  went  to  Samper's.  Will  you  believe 
that  in  throwing  down  upon  the  jeweller's  counter  that  hand- 
ful of  many-colored  notes,  those  notes  which  represented  for 
me  at  least  a  year  of  pleasure,  many  beautiful  women, 
a  journey  to  Italy,  and  champagne  and  cigars  at  discretion, 
that  I  wavered  a  moment  ?  Then  don't  believe  it.  I  threw 
them  down  with  the  same  nonchalance — do  I  say  non- 
chalance ? — with  the  same  satisfaction  with  which  Buck- 
ingham, breaking  the  thread  on  which  they  were  strung, 
strewed  with  pearls  the  carpet  of  his  beloved's  palace. 

"  I  bought  the  jewels  and  carried  them  to  my  lodgings. 
You   can   picture   nothing  more   glorious  than  that  set  of 


1/ 


248  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

emeralds.  No  wonder  the  women  sigh  now  and  then  as 
they  pass  in  front  of  those  shops  which  present  to  their  eyes 
such  ghttering  temptations  ;  no  wonder  that  Mephistopheles 
selected  a  collar  of  precious  stones  as  the  object  most  likely 
to  seduce  Marguerite.  I,  man  that  I  am,  could  have  wished 
for  an  instant  to  live  in  the  Orient  and  be  one  of  those 
fabulous  monarchs  who  wreathe  their  brows  with  a  coil  of 
gold  and  gems,  that  I  might  adorn  myself  with  those  mag- 
nificent emerald  leaves  and  diamond  flowers. 

"  A  gnome,  to  buy  a  kiss  from  a  sylph,  would  not  have 
been  able  to  find  among  the  immense  treasures  hoarded  in 
the  avaricious  heart  of  the  earth  and  known  to  those  elves 
alone,  an  emerald  larger,  clearer,  more  beautiful  than  that 
which  sparkled,  fastening  a  knot  of  rubies,  in  the  centre  of 
the  diadem. 

"  Now  that  I  had  the  gems,  I  began  to  think  out  a  way  of 
placing  them  in  possession  of  the  woman  for  whom  they 
were  intended. 

"  At  the  end  of  several  days,  I  prevailed  upon  one  of  her 
maids — thanks  to  the  money  that  I  still  had  left — to  promise 
me  that  she,  when  unobserved,  would  place  the  set  in  the 
jewel-box ;  and  to  assure  myself  that  she  should  not,  by 
her  conduct,  betray  the  source  of  the  gift,  I  gave  her  what 
money  was  left  over,  several  hundred  dollars,  on  condition 
that  she,  as  soon  as  she  had  put  the  emeralds  in  the  place 
agreed  upon,  should  leave  the  capital  and  remove  to  Bar- 
celona.    This,  in  fact,  she  did. 

"Judge  for  yourself  what  must  have  been  the  surprise  of 
her  mistress  when,  after  noticing  her  sudden  disappearance 
and  suspecting  that  perhaps  she  had  fled  from  the  house  with 
something  stolen,  she  found  in  the  jewel-box  the  magnificent 
set  of  emeralds.  Who  had  divined  her  thought  ?  Who  had 
been  able  to  surmise  that  she  still,  from  time  to  time,  re- 
membered those  gems  with  a  sigh  ? 


THE  SET  OF  EMERALDS  249 

"  The  weeks  and  the  months  passed  on.  I  knew  that  she 
kept  my  gift ;  I  knew  that  great  efforts  had  been  made  to 
discover  whence  it  came ;  and  yet  I  had  never  seen  her 
adorned  with  it. — Did  she  scorn  the  offering  ?  *  Ah  1 '  I 
said,  '  if  she  knew  all  the  merit  of  that  gift  I  if  she  knew 
that  its  desert  is  scarcely  surpassed  by  the  gift  of  that  lover 
who  pawned  his  cloak  in  winter  to  buy  a  nosegay  !  Does 
she  perhaps  think  that  it  comes  from  the  hands  of  some 
great  personage  who  will  one  day  present  himself,  if 
admitted,  to  claim  its  price  ?     What  a  mistake  she  makes  1  " 

"  One  night  when  there  was  to  be  a  royal  ball  I  stationed 
myself  at  the  door  of  the  palace  and,  lost  in  the  crowd,  waited 
for  her  carriage  that  I  might  see  her.  When  it  arrived  and, 
the  footman  opening  the  door,  she  appeared  in  radiant  beauty, 
a  murmur  of  admiration  went  up  from  among  the  pressing 
multitude.  The  women  beheld  her  with  envy;  the  men 
with  longing ;  from  me  there  broke  a  low,  involuntary  cry. 
She  was  wearing  the  set  of  emeralds. 

"  That  night  I  went  to  bed  without  my  supper  ;  I  do  not 
remember  whether  it  was  because  emotion  had  taken  away 
my  appetite  or  because  I  had  no  money.  In  either  case,  I 
was  happy.  In  my  dreams  I  thought  I  heard  the  music  of 
the  ball  and  saw  her  crossing  before  my  eyes,  flashing  sparks 
of  a  thousand  colors,  until  I  dreamed  even  that  I  was  danc- 
ing with  her. 

"  The  romance  of  the  emeralds  had  been  conjectured,  since 
they  had  been  talked  about  when  they  first  appeared  in  the 
cabinet,  by  some  ladies  of  rank. 

"  Now  that  the  set  had  been  seen,  there  was  no  longer 
room  for  doubt,  and  idle  tongues  began  to  comment  on  the 
affair.  She  enjoyed  a  spotless  reputation.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  dissipation  of  her  husband  and  his  neglect  of  her, 
calumny  could  never  reach  to  the  height  on  which  her  virtue 
had  placed  her ;  but  yet,  on  this  occasion,  there  began  to 


250  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

Stir  that  little  breath  of  gossip  from  which,  according  to  Don 
Basilio,  scandal  begins. 

"  On  a  day  when  I  chanced  to  be  in  a  circle  of  young 
men,  the  conversation  fell  on  the  famous  emeralds,  and 
finally  a  coxcomb  said,  as  if  settling  the  matter : 

"  There  is  no  need  of  discussion.  These  jewels  have  as 
vulgar  an  origin  as  all  such  presents  in  this  world  of  ours. 
The  time  has  gone  by  when  invisible  spirits  placed  marvel- 
lous gifts  under  the  pillows  of  lovely  ladies,  and  the  man 
who  makes  a  present  of  this  value  makes  it  with  the  hope 
of  a  recompense — and  this  recompense,  who  knows  that  it 
was  not  given  in  advance  ?  " 

*'  The  words  of  that  idiot  roused  my  wrath,  and  all  the 
more  because  they  found  response  in  those  who  heard  them. 
Yet  I  controlled  myself.  What  right  had  I  to  go  to  the 
defence  of  that  woman  ? 

"  Not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed  when  I  had  oppor- 
tunity to  contradict  this  man  who  had  insulted  her.  I  do 
not  know  exactly  what  the  point  was  on  which  I  contra- 
dicted him  ;  what  I  can  assure  you  of  is  that  I  did  it  with 
so  much  sharpness,  not  to  say  rudeness,  that  out  of  our  dis- 
pute grew  a  quarrel.     That  is  what  I  was  seeking. 

"  My  friends,  knowing  my  disposition,  wondered,  not  only 
that  I  should  have  sought  a  duel  for  so  trifling  a  cause,  but 
at  my  firm  refusal  to  give  or  receive  explanations  of  any 
kind. 

"  I  fought,  I  do  not  know  whether  to  say  with  good  fortune 
or  not,  for  although  on  firing  I  saw  my  adversary  sway  an 
instant  and  fall  to  the  ground,  a  second  after  I  felt  my  ears 
buzzing  and  my  eyes  clouding  over.  I  was  wounded,  too, 
and  seriously,  in  the  breast. 

"  They  carried  me,  already  in  a  burning  fever,  to  my  mean 
lodging.  There  I  know  not  how  many  days  went  by, 
while  I  called  aloud  I  know  not  on  whom ;  undoubtedly  on 


THE  SE  T  OF  EMERA  LDS  251 

her.  I  would  have  had  courage  to  suffer  in  silence  all  my 
life  for  one  look  of  gratitude  on  the  brink  of  the  grave ;  but 
to  die  without  leaving  her  even  a  memory  of  me  1 

"  These  ideas  were  tormenting  my  imagination  one  wake- 
ful, fevered  night,  when  I  saw  the  curtains  of  my  alcove  part 
and  in  the  opening  appeared  a  woman.  I  thought  that  I 
was  dreaming  ;  but  no.  That  woman  approached  my  bed, 
that  poor,  hot  bed  on  which  I  was  tossing  in  pain,  and  lifting 
the  veil  which  covered  her  face,  disclosed  a  tear  trembling 
on  her  long,  dark  lashes.     It  was  she  I 

*'  I  started  up  with  frightened  eyes,  I  started  up  and — at 
that  moment  I  arrived  in  front  of  Duran's  bookstore — " 

"  What  1"  I  exclaimed,  interrupting  my  friend  on  hearing 
that  change  of  tone.  "  Then  you  were  not  wounded  and  in 
bed  ?  " 

"In  bed  ! — ah  !  what  the  deuce  1  I  had  forgotten  to  tell 
you  that  all  this  is  what  I  was  thinking  as  I  came  from  the 
jewelry  shop  of  Samper, — where  in  sober  truth  I  saw  the 
set  of  emeralds  and  heard,  on  the  lips  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
the  exclamation  which  I  have  mentioned  to  you, — to  the 
Carrcra  de  San  Jerd?iimOy  where  a  thrust  from  the  elbow  of 
a  porter  roused  me  from  my  revery  in  front  of  Duran's,  in 
whose  window  I  observed  a  book  by  Mery  with  this  title, 
Histoire  de  ce  qui  n' est  pas  arrive ^  '  The  Story  of  that  which 
did  not  happen.'     Do  you  understand  it  now  ?  " 

On  hearing  this  denouement^  I  could  not  repress  a  shout  of 
laughter.  Really  I  do  not  know  of  what  Mery's  book  may 
treat,  but  I  now  see  how,  with  that  title,  a  million  incompar- 
able stories  might  be  written. 


y 


THE  TAVERN  OF  THE  CATS 

In  Seville,  at  the  half-way  point  of  the  road  that  runs 
from  the  Macarena  gate  to  the  convent  of  San  Jeronimo, 
there  is,  among  other  famous  taverns,  one  which,  because  of 
its  location  and  the  special  features  that  attach  to  it,  may  be 
said  to  have  been,  if  it  is  not  now,  the  real  thing,  the  most 
characteristic  of  all  the  Andalusian  roadside  inns. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  little  house,  white  as  the  driven  snow, 
under  its  roof  of  tiles,  some  reddish,  some  deep  green,  with 
an  endless  growth  of  yellow  mustard  and  sprigs  of  mignonette 
springing  up  among  them.  A  wooden  overhang  shadows 
the  door,  which  has  on  either  side  a  bench  of  cemented  brick. 
Mortised  into  the  wall,  which  is  broken  by  various  little 
casements,  opened  at  caprice  to  give  light  to  the  interior, 
some  lower,  some  higher,  one  square,  another  imitating  a 
Moorish  arched  window  with  its  dividing  colonnettes,  or  a 
dormer,  are  seen  at  regular  distances  iron  spikes  and  rings 
for  hitching  the  horses.  A  vine,  full  of  years,  which  twists 
its  blackening  stems  in  and  out  of  the  sustaining  wooden 
lattice,  clothing  it  with  clusters  of  grapes  and  broad  green 
leaves,  covers  like  a  canopy  the  guest-hall,  that  consists  of 
three  pine  benches,  half  a  dozen  rickety  rush  chairs,  and  as 
many  as  six  or  seven  crippled  tables  made  of  ill-joined  boards. 
On  one  side  of  the  house  climbs  a  honeysuckle,  clinging  to 
the  cracks  in  the  wall,  up  to  the  roof,  from  whose  eaves 
droop  sprays  that  sway  with  the  wind,  like  floating  curtains 
of  verdure.  On  the  other  side  runs  a  fence  of  wattled  twigs, 
defining  the  bounds  of  a  little  garden  that  looks  like  a  basket 
of  rushes  overflowing  with  flowers.     The  tops  of  two  great 

253 


THE  TAVERN  OF  THE  CATS  253 

trees,  towering  up  behind  the  tavern,  form  the  dark  back- 
ground against  which  stand  out  its  white  chimneys ;  the  - 
decoration  is  completed  by  the  orchard-plots  full  of  century, 
plants  and  blackberries,  the  broom  that  grows  on  the  borders 
of  the  river,  and  the  Guadalquivir,  which  flows-^into  the  dis- 
tance, slowly  winding  its  tortuous  way  between  those  rural 
banks  to  the  foot  of  the  ancient  convent  of  San  Jeronimo, 
that  peers  above  the  thick  olive  groves  surrounding  it  and 
traces  the  black  silhouette  of  its  towers  against  a  transparent, 
azure  sky. 

Imagine  this  landscape  animated  by  a  multitude  of  figures 
— men,  women,  children  and  animals,  forming  groups  that 
vie  with  one  another  in  the  characteristic  and  the  pictur- 
esque ;  here  the  innkeeper,  round  and  ruddy,  seated  in  the 
sun  on  a  low  chair,  rolling  between  his  hands  the  tobacco  to 
make  a  cigarette,  with  the  paper  in  his  mouth ;  there  a  huck- 
ster of  Macarena  who  sings,  rolling  up  his  eyes,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  his  guitar,  while  others  beat  time  by  clap- 
ping their  hands  or  striking  their  glasses  on  the  tables ;  over 
yonder  a  group  of  peasant  girls  with  their  gauzy  kerchiefs 
of  a  million  colors,  and  a  whole  flower-pot  of  pinks  in  their 
hair,  who  play  the  tambourine,  and  scream,  and  laugh,  and 
talk  at  the  top  of  their  voices  as  they  push  like  mad  the 
swing  hung  between  two  trees ;  and  the  serving-boys  of  the 
tavern  who  come  and  go  with  trays  of  wine-glasses  full  of 
manzanilla  and  with  plates  of  olives  ;  and  the  group  of  village 
people  who  swarm  in  the  road  ;  two  drunken  fellows  quarrel- 
ling with  a  dandy  who  is  making^love,  in  passing,  to  a  pretty 
girl ;  a  cock  that,  proudly  spreading  out  its  wings,  crows 
from  the  thatch  of  the  poultry-yard ;  a  dog  that  barks  at  the 
boys  who  tease  him  with  sticks  and  stones  ;  olive-oil  boiling 
and  bubbling  in  the  pan  where  fish  is  frying ;  the  cracking 
of  the  whips  of  the  cab-drivers  who  arrive  in  a  cloud  of  dust; 
a  din  of  songs,  castanets,  peals  of  laughter,  voices,  whistles 
and  guitars,  and  blows  on  the  tables,  and  clappings,  and 


254  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

crash  of  breaking  pitchers,  and  thousands  of  strange,  dis- 
cordant sounds  forming  a  jocund  hullabaloo  impossible  to 
describe.  Fancy  all  this  on  a  pleasant  calm  afternoon,  the 
afternoon  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  days  in  Andalusia 
where  all  the  days  are  so  beautiful,  and  you  will  have  an 
idea  of  the  spectacle  that  presented  itself  for  the  first  time 
to  my  eyes,  when,  led  by  its  fame,  I  came  to  visit  that 
celebrated  tavern. 

This  was  many  years  ago ;  ten  or  twelve,  at  least.  I  was 
there  as  a  stranger,  away  from  my  natural  environment,  and 
everything  about  me,  from  the  cut  of  my  clothes  to  the 
astonished  expression  of  my  face,  was  out  of  keeping  with 
that  picture  of  frank  and  boisterous  jollity.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  passers-by  turned  their  heads  to  stare  at  me  with 
the  dislike  with  which  one  regards  an  intruder. 

Not  wishing  to  attract  attention  nor  choosing  that  my 
appearance  should  be  made  the  butt  of  mockeries  more  or 
less  dissembled,  I  took  a  seat  at  one  side  of  the  tavern  door, 
called  for  something  to  drink,  which  I  did  not  drink,  and 
when  all  had  forgotten  my  alien  presence,  I  drew  out  a  sheet 
of  sketching  paper  from  the  portfolio  which  I  carried  with 
me,  sharpened  a  pencil,  and  began  to  look  about  for  a  char- 
acteristic figure  to  copy  and  preserve  as  a  souvenir  of  that 
day. 

Soon  my  eyes  fastened  on  one  of  the  girls  forming  the 
merry  group  around  the  swing.  She  was  tall,  slender,  bru- 
nette, with  sleepy  eyes,  big  and  black,  and  hair  blacker  than 
her  eyes.  While  I  was  making  the  sketch  a  group  of  men, 
among  them  one  who  played  lively  flourishes  on  the  guitar 
with  much  skill,  chorused  songs  that  alluded  to  personal 
qualities,  the  secrets  of  love,  the  likings  of  the  girls  who 
were  sporting  about  the  swing  or  stories  of  their  jealousy 
and  their  disdain, — songs  to  which  these  in  their  turn  re- 
sponded with  others  no  less  saucy,  piquant  and  gay. 


THE  TAVERN  OF  THE  CATS  255 

The  slender  brunette,  quick  of  wit,  whom  I  had  chosen 
for  model,  led  the  singing  of  the  women,  composing  the 
quatrains  and  reciting  them  to  her  companions  who  greeted 
them  with  clapping  and  laughter,  while  the  guitar-player 
seemed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  lads  and  the  one  eminent 
among  them  all  for  his  cleverness  and  ready  retorts. 

For  my  part,  it  did  not  take  me  long  to  understand  that 
between  these  two  there  was  a  feeling  of  affection  which 
betrayed  itself  in  their  songs,  full  of  transparent  allusions 
and  enamoured  phrases. 

When  I  finished  my  drawing,  night  was  beginning  to  fall. 
Already  there  had  been  lighted  in  the  tower  of  the  cathedral 
the  two  lanterns  of  the  shrine  of  the  bells,  and  their  lustres 
seemed  like  fiery  eyes  from  that  giant  of  brick  and  mortar 
which  dominates  all  the  city.  The  groups  were  going,  melt- 
ing away  little  by  little  and  disappearing  up  the  road  in  the 
dim  twilight  silvered  by  the  moon,  that  now  began  to  show 
against  the  violet  dusk  of  the  sky.  The  girls  went  singing 
away  together,  and  their  clear,  bright  voices  gradually  less- 
ened until  they  became  but  a  part  of  the  other  indistinct 
and  distant  sounds  that  trembled  in  the  air.  All  was  over 
at  once, — the  day,  the  jollity,  the  animation  and  the  im- 
promptu festival ;  and  of  all  there  remained  only  an  echo 
in  the  ear  and  in  the  soul,  like  the  softest  of  vibrations,  like 
a  sweet  drowsiness  such  as  one  experiences  on  waking  from 
a  pleasant  dream. 

When  the  last  loiterers  were  gone,  I  folded  my  drawing, 
placed  it  safely  in  the  portfolio,  called  the  waiter  with  a 
hand-clap,  paid  my  trifling  account,  and  was  just  on  the 
point  of  departing  when  I  felt  myself  caught  gently  by  the 
arm.  It  was  the  young  guitar-player  -whom  I  had  noticed 
before  and  who  while  I  was  drawing  had  often  stared  at  me 
with  unusual  curiosity.  I  had  not  observed  that,  after  the 
fun  was  over,  he  approached  under  some  pretext  the  place 


256  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

where  I  was  sitting  in  order  to  see  what  I  was  doing  that 
I  should  be  looking  so  steadily  at  the  woman  in  whom  he 
seemed  to  have  a  special  interest. 

"  Sehorito^^^  he  said  to  me  in  a  tone  which  he  strove  to 
soften  as  much  as  possible,  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do  me 
a  favor.'* 

"  A  favor  1  "  I  exclaimed,  without  comprehending  what  he 
could  want  of  me.  "  Name  it,  and  if  it  is  in  my  power, 
count  on  it  as  done." 

"  Would  you  give  me  the  picture  you  have  made  ?  "  On 
hearing  this,  I  could  not  help  pausing  a  moment  in  per- 
plexity, surprised  both  by  the  request,  rare  enough  in  itself, 
and  by  the  tone,  which  baffled  me  to  determine  whether  it 
was  one  of  threat  or  of  entreaty.  He  must  have  understood 
my  hesitation,  and  he  immediately  hastened  to  add  : 

"  I  beg  it  of  you  for  the  sake  of  your  mother,  for  the  sake 
of  the  woman  whom  you  hold  dearest  in  the  world,  if  you 
hold  any  dear;  ask  of  me  in  return  all  that  my  poverty 
affords." 

I  did  not  know  how  to  make  my  way  out  of  this  difficulty, 
I  would  almost  have  preferred  that  it  had  come  in  guise  of 
a  quarrel,  if  so  I  might  have  kept  the  sketch  of  that  woman 
who  had  so  deeply  impressed  me  ;  but  whether  it  was  the 
surprise  of  the  moment,  or  my  inability  to  say  no  to  anything, 
the  fact  is  that  I  opened  my  portfolio,  took  out  the  drawing 
and  handed  it  to  him  without  a  word. 

To  repeat  the  lad's  expressions  of  gratitude,  his  exclama- 
tions as  he  gazed  at  it  anew  by  the  light  of  the  tavern's  metal 
lamp,  the  care  with  which  he  folded  it  to  put  it  away  securely 
in  his  sash,  the  offers  of  devotion  he  made  me,  and  the  ex- 
travagant praises  with  which  he  cried  up  his  good  fortune  in 
that  he  had  met  one  whom  he  called,  in  his  clipped  Anda- 
lusian  speech,  a  "  reg'lar  senorito,^''  would  be  a  task  most 
difficult,  not  to  say  impossible.     I  will  only  say  that,  as  the 


THE  TA  VERN  OF  THE  CA  TS 


257 


night,  what  with  one  delay  and  another,  was  now  fully  upon 
us,  he  insisted,  willy-nilly,  on  going  with  me  to  the  Macarena 
gate ;  and  he  laid  so  much  stress  on  it,  that  finally  I  decided 
that  it  would  be  better  to  take  the  road  together.  The  way 
is  very  short,  but  while  it  lasted  he  managed  to  tell  me  from 
beginning  to  end  all  the  story  of  his  love. 

The  tavern  where  the  merry-making  had  taken  place  be- 
longed to  his  father,  who  had  promised  him,  when  he  should 
marry,  an  orchard  which  adjoined  the  house  and  was  part 
of  its  holding.  As  to  the  girl,  the  object  of  his  love,  whom 
he  described  to  me  with  the  most  vivid  colors  and  most 
picturesque  phrases,  he  told  me  that  her  name  was  Amparo, 
that  she  had  been  brought  up  in  his  father's  house  from  her 
babyhood,  and  that  it  was  not  known  who  her  parents  were. 
All  this  and  a  hundred  other  details  of  less  interest  he  re- 
lated to  me  on  the  way.  When  he  had  come  to  the  gates 
of  the  city  he  gave  me  a  strong  pressure  of  the  hands,  again 
put  himself  at  my  service,  and  made  off  trolling  a  song  whose 
echoes  spread  far  and  wide  through  the  silence  of  the  night. 
I  stood  a  moment  watching  him  depart.  His  happiness 
seemed  contagious,  and  I  felt  joyous  with  a  strange  and 
nameless  joy — a  reflected  joy,  if  I  may  say  so. 

He  sang  till  he  could  sing  no  longer.  One  of  his  refrains 
ran  thus : 

"  Too  long  our  separation  ; 
Soul  of  my  soul  thou  art, 
The  Virgin  of  Consolation 
On  the  altar  of  my  heart." 

When  his  voice  began  to  die  away,  I  heard  borne  on  the 
evening  wind  another  voice,  delicate  and  vibrating,  that 
sounded  at  a  further  distance  yet.  It  was  she,  she  who 
impatiently  awaited  his  coming. 

A  few  days  later  I  left   Seville,  and  many  years  went  by 


258  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

before  my  return.  I  forgot  many  things  which  happened  to 
me  there,  but  the  memory  of  such  happiness,  so  humble  and 
so  content,  was  never  erased  from  my  memory. 

IL    ' 

As  I  have  said,  many  years  passed  after  my  leaving  Seville 
without  my  forgetting  in  the  least  that  afternoon  whose 
recollection  sometimes  passed  over  my  imagination  like 
a  reviving  breeze  that  cools  the  heated  brow. 

When  chance  brought  me  again  to  the  great  city  which  is 
called  with  so  much  reason  the  Queen  of  Andalusia,  one  of 
the  things  that  most  attracted  my  attention  was  the  remark- 
able change  effected  during  my  absence.  Great  buildings, 
blocks  of  houses  and  entire  suburbs  had  risen  at  the  magic 
touch  of  industry  and  capital ;  on  every  side  were  factories, 
public  gardens,  parks,  shady  walks,  but  unhappily  many 
venerable  monuments  of  antiquity  had  disappeared. 

I  visited  again  many  proud  edifices  full  of  historical  and 
artistic  memories  ;  again  I  wandered  and  lost  my  way  amid 
the  million  turns  of  the  curious  suburb  of  Santa  Cruz ;  I 
surprised  in  the  course  of  my  strolls  many  new  buildings 
which  had  been  erected  I  know  not  how ;  I  missed  many 
old  ones  which  had  vanished  I  know  not  why ;  and  finally 
I  took  my  way  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  The  river-bank 
has  ever  been  in   Seville  the  chosen  field  for  my  excursions. 

After  I  had  admired  the  magnificent  panorama  which 
offers  itself  to  the  view  at  the  point  where  the  iron  bridge 
connects  the  opposite  shores  ;  after  I  had  noticed,  with 
absorbed  gaze,  the  myriad  details, — palaces  and  rows  of 
small  white  houses ;  after  I  had  passed  in  review  the'  in- 
numerable ships  at  anchor  in  the  stream,  unfurling  to  the 
wind  their  airy  pennants  of  a  thousand  colors,  and  when  I 
heard  the  confused  hum  of  the  wharves,  where  everything 
breathes  activity  and  movement,  I  transported  myself,  follow- 


THE  TAVERN  OF  THE  CATS  259 

ing  in  imagination  the  river,  against  its  current,  to  San 
Jeronimo. 

I  remembered  that  tranquil  landscape,  reposeful,  luminous, 
where  the  rich  vegetation  of  Andalusia  displays  without 
cultivation  her  natural  charms.  As  if  I  had  been  in  a  boat 
rowed  upstream,  again,  with  memory's  aid,  I  saw  file  by,  on 
one  side,  the  Cartuja  [Carthusian  convent]  with  its  groves 
and  its  lofty,  slender  towers  ;  on  the  other,  the  Barrio  de 
los  Hiimeros  [the  old  g>'psy  quarter],  the  ancient  city  walls, 
half  Arab,  half  Roman,  the  orchards  with  their  fences 
covered  with  brambles,  and  the  water-wheels  shaded  by 
great,  isolated  trees,  and  finally,  San  Jeronimo. — On  reach- 
ing this  point  in  my  imagination,  those  memories  that  I  still 
cherished  of  the  famous  inn  rose  before  me  more  vividly 
than  ever,  and  I  fancied  myself  present  once  again  at  those 
peasant  merry-makings;  I  heard  the  girls  singing,  as  they 
flew  through  the  air  in  the  swing ;  and  I  saw  the  groups  of 
village  folk  wandering  over  the  meadows,  some  picnicking, 
some  quarrelling,  some  laughing,  some  dancing,  and  all  in 
motion,  overflowing  with  youth,  vivacity  and  glee.  There 
was  she,  surrounded  by  her  children,  now  holding  herself 
aloof  from  the  group  of  merry  girls  who  were  still  laughing 
and  singing,  and  there  was  he,  tranquil  and  content  with 
his  felicity,  looking  with  tenderness  at  the  persons  whom  he 
loved  best  in  the  world,  all  together  about  him  and  all  happy, 
— his  wife,  his  children,  his  father,  who  was  there  as  ten 
years  ago,  seated  at  the  door  of  his  inn,  impassively  twisting 
the  paper  about  his  cigarette,  without  more  change  than  that 
his  head,  which  then  was  gray,  would  now  be  white  as  snow. 

A  friend  who  accompanied  me  in  the  walk,  noting  the  sort 
of  blissful  revery  in  which  for  several  moments  I  had  been 
rapt  with  these  imaginings,  shook  me  at  last  by  the  arm, 
asking : 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 


26o  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

**  I  was  thinking,"  I  replied,  "  of  the  Tavern  of  the  Cats, 
and  revolving  in  my  mind  all  the  pleasant  recollections  I 
cherish  of  an  afternoon  when  I  was  at  San  Jeronimo. — This 
very  instant  I  was  ending  a  love  story  which  I  left  there 
well  begun,  and  I  ended  it  so  much  to  my  liking  that  I  believe 
there  cannot  be  any  other  conclusion  than  that  which  I  have 
made  for  it.  And  speaking  of  the  Tavern  of  the  Cats,"  I 
continued,  turning  to  my  friend,  "  when  shall  we  take  a  day 
and  go  there  for  luncheon  or  to  enjoy  an  hour  of  revel  ?  " 

"  An  hour  of  revel  1  "  exclaimed  my  friend,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  astonishment  which  I  did  not  at  that  time  succeed 
in  explaining  to  myself,  "  an  hour  of  revel !  A  very  ap- 
propriate place  it  is  for  that  1  " 

"  And  why  not  ? "  I  rejoined,  wondering  in  my  turn  at 
his  surprise. 

"  The  reason  is  very  simple,"  he  told  me  at  last,  "  for  at 
one  hundred  paces  from  the  tavern  they  have  laid  out  the 
new  cemetery  "  [of  San  Fernando]. 

Then  it  was  I  who  gazed  at  him  with  astonished  eyes 
and  remained  some  minutes  silent  before  speaking  a  single 
word. 

We  returned  to  the  city,  and  that  day  went  by,  and  still 
more  days,  without  my  being  able  entirely  to  throw  off  the 
impression  which  news  so  unexpected  had  made  upon  me. 
The  more  variations  I  played  upon  it,  still  the  love  story  of 
the  brunette  had  no  conclusion,  for  what  I  had  invented 
before  was  not  conceivable,  since  I  could  not  make  natural 
a  picture  of  happiness  and  mirth  with  a  cemetery  for  a  back- 
ground. 

One  afternoon,  determined  to  resolve  my  doubts,  I  pleaded 
a  slight  indisposition  as  an  excuse  for  not  accompanying  my 
friend  in  our  accustomed  rambles,  and  I  started  out  alone 
for  the  inn.  When  I  had  left  behind  me  the  Macarena  gate 
and   its   picturesque  suburb  and  had  begun  to  cross  by   a 


THE  TAVERN  OF  THE  CATS  261 

narrow  footpath  that  labyrinth  of  orchards,  already  I  seemed 
to  perceive  something  strange  in  my  surroundings. 

Whether  it  was  because  the  afternoon  had  become  a  little 
clouded,  or  that  the  tendency  of  my  mind  inclined  me  to 
melancholy  ideas,  the  fact  is  that  I  felt  cold  and  sad,  and 
noticed  a  silence  about  me  which  reminded  me  of  utter  soli- 
tude, as  sleep  reminds  us  of  death. 

I  walked  a  little  without  stopping,  crossed  the  orchards  to 
shorten  the  distance  and  came  out  into  the  street  of  San 
Lazaro,  whence  already  may  be  seen  in  the  distance  the 
convent  of  San  Jeronimo. 

Perhaps  it  is  an  illusion,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  along  the 
road  where  pass  the  dead  even  the  trees  and  the  vegetation 
come  to  take  on  a  different  color.  I  fancied  there,  at  least, 
that  warm  and  harmonious  tones  were  lacking, — no  freshness 
in  the  groves,  no  atmosphere  in  space,  no  light  upon  the 
earth.  The  landscape  was  monotonous ;  its  figures  black 
and  isolated. 

Here  was  a  hearse  moving  slowly,  covered  with  mourning 
draperies,  raising  no  dust,  cracking  no  whip,  without  shout 
to  the  horses,  almost  without  movement ;  further  on  a  man 
of  ill  countenance  with  a  spade  on  his  shoulder,  or  a  priest 
in  long,  dark  robe,  or  a  group  of  old  men  poorly  clad  and 
of  repugnant  aspect,  with  extinguished  candles  in  their  hands, 
who  were  returning  in  silence,  with  lowered  heads,  and  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground.  I  believed  myself  transported  I  know 
not  whither ;  for  all  that  I  saw  reminded  me  of  a  landscape 
whose  contours  were  the  same  as  ever,  but  whose  colors  had 
been,  as  it  were,  blotted  out,  there  being  left  of  them  merely 
a  vague  half-tone.  The  impression  that  I  experienced  can 
be  compared  only  to  that  which  we  feel  in  those  dreams 
where,  by  an  inexplicable  phenomenon,  things  are  and  are 
not  at  one  and  the  same  time,  and  the  places  in  which  we 


262  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

believe  ourselves  to  be,  partially  transform  themselves  in  an 
eccentric  and  impossible  fashion. 

At  last  I  reached  the  roadside  inn  ;  I  recognized  it  more 
by  the  name,  which  it  still  keep^  printed  in  large  letters  on 
one  of  its  walls,  than  by  anything  else ;  for  as  to  the  little 
house  itself,  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  had  changed  even  its 
outlines  and  its  proportions.  At  once  I  saw  that  it  was 
much  more  ruinous,  that  it  was  forsaken  and  sad.  The 
shadow  of  the  cemetery,  which  rose  just  beyond  it,  appeared 
to  fall  over  it,  enveloping  it  in  a  dark  covering,  like  the 
cloth  laid  on  the  face  of  the  dead.  The  innkeeper  was  there, 
utterly  alone.  I  recognized  him  as  the  same  of  ten  years 
back ;  I  recognized  him  I  know  not  why,  for  in  this  time  he 
had  aged  even  to  the  point  of  appearing  a  decrepit  old  man 
on  the  edge  of  the  grave,  whereas  when  I  first  saw  him  he 
seemed  fifty,  abounding  in  health,  satisfaction  and  vitality. 

I  sat  down  at  one  of  the  deserted  tables ;  I  asked  for  some- 
thing to  drink,  which  the  innkeeper  brought  me,  and  from 
one  detached  remark  after  another  we  fell  finally  into  con- 
tinuous conversation  relating  to  that  love  story  of  whose 
last  chapter  I  was  still  in  ignorance,  although  I  had  several 
times  attempted  to  divine  it. 

"  Everything,"  said  the  poor  old  man  to  me,  "  everything 
seems  to  have  conspired  against  us  since  the  period  in  which 
you  remember  me.  You  know  how  it  was  with  us.  Amparo 
was  the  delight  of  our  eyes ;  she  had  been  reared  here  from 
•her  birth ;  she  was  the  joy  of  the  house ;  never  could  she 
miss  her  own  parents,  for  I  loved  her  like  a  father  ;  my  son 
had  loved  her,  too,  from  his  boyhood,  first  as  a  brother, 
afterwards  with  a  devotion  greater  yet.  They  were  on  the 
eve  of  marriage  ;  I  was  ready  to  make  over  to  them  the  better 
part  of  my  modest  property,  for  with  the  profits  of  my 
business  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  have  more  than 
enough  to  live  at  ease,  when  some  evil  spirit — I  know  not 


THE  TAVERN  OF  THE  CATS  263 

what — envied  our  happiness  and  destroyed  it  in  a  moment. 
In  the  first  place  the  whisper  went  about  that  they  were 
going  to  locate  a  cemetery  on  this  side  of  San  Jeronimo ; 
some  said  close  by,  others  further  off,  and  while  we  were  all 
uneasy  and  anxious,  fearing  that  they  might  carry  out  this 
project,  a  greater  and  more  certain  trouble  fell  upon  us. 

"  One  day  two  gentlemen  arrived  here  in  a  carriage  ;  they 
put  to  me  thousands  of  questions  about  Amparo  whom  I 
had  taken  in  her  babyhood  from  the  foundling  hospital ; 
they  asked  to  see  the  swaddling-clothes  which  she  wore 
when  she  was  abandoned  and  which  I  had  kept,  with  the 
final  result  that  Amparo  proved  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  very 
rich  gentleman,  who  went  to  law  to  recover  her  from  us  and 
persisted  until  he  gained  his  end.  I  do  not  wish  even  to 
call  to  memory  the  day  when  they  took  her  away.  She 
wept  like  a  Magdalen,  my  son  would  have  made  a  mad  re- 
sistance, I  was  like  one  dumfounded,  not  understanding  what 
was  happening  to  me.  She  went.  Rather,  she  did  not  go, 
for  she  loved  us  too  much  to  go  of  her  own  accord,  but 
they  carried  her  off,  and  a  curse  fell  upon  the  house.  My 
son,  after  an  attack  of  terrible  despair,  fell  into  a  sort  of 
lethargy.  I  do  not  know  how  to  express  my  own  state  of 
mind.     I  believed  that  for  me  the  world  had  ended. 

"  While  these  things  were  going  on,  they  began  to  lay  out 
the  cemetery.  The  village-folk  fled  from  this  neighborhood. 
There  were  no  more  festivals,  songs  and  music ;  all  the 
merriment  of  this  countryside  was  over,  even  as  the  joy  of 
our  souls. 

"  And  Amparo  was  no  happier  than  we  ;  bred  here  in  the 
open  air,  in  the  bustle  and  animation  of  the  inn,  brought  up 
to  be  joyous  in  poverty,  they  plucked  her  from  this  life,  and 
she  withered,  as  wither  the  flowers  gathered  in  a  garden  to 
adorn  a  drawing-room.  My  son  made  incredible  efforts  to 
see  her  again,  to  have  a  moment's  speech  with  her.     All  was 


264  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

in  vain  ;  her  family  did  not  wish  it.  At  last  he  saw  her,  but 
he  saw  her  dead.  The  funeral  train  passed  by  here.  I 
knew  nothing  about  it  and  I  cannot  tell  why  I  fell  to  weeping 
when  I  saw  her  hearse.  The  heart,  loyal  to  love,  clamored 
to  me: 

"  '  She  is  young  like  Amparo  ;  she,  too,  must  be  beautiful ; 
who  knows  if  it  may  not  be  herself  ? '  And  it  was.  My  son 
followed  the  train,  entered  the  enclosure  and,  when  the  coffin 
was  opened,  uttered  a  cry  and  fell  senseless  to  the  ground  ; 
and  so  they  brought  him  back  to  me.  Afterwards  he  went 
mad,  and  is  now  a  lunatic." 

When  the  poor  old  man  had  reached  this  point  in  his  nar- 
rative, there  entered  the  inn  two  gravediggers  of  sinister 
bearing  and  repellent  look.  Having  finished  their  task,  they 
had  come  to  take  a  drink  "  to  the  health  of  the  dead^'^  as  one 
of  them  said,  accompanying  the  jest  with  a  silly  leer.  The 
innkeeper  brushed  off  a  tear  with  the  back  of  his  hand  and 
went  to  serve  them. 

Night  was  beginning  to  fall,  a  dark  night  and  most  gloomy. 
The  sky  was  black  and  so  was  the  landscape.  From  the 
boughs  of  the  trees  still  hung,  half  rotted,  the  ropes  of  the 
swing  swaying  in  the  wind  ;  it  reminded  me  of  a  gallows-rope 
quivering  yet  after  the  body  of  the  felon  had  been  taken 
down.  Only  confused  noises  reached  my  ears, — the  distant 
barking  of  dogs  on  guard  in  the  orchards ;  the  creaking  of 
a  water-wheel,  prolonged,  melancholy  and  shrill  like  a  lament ; 
disconnected,  horrible  words  of  the  gravediggers  who  were 
plotting  in  low  tones  a  sacrilegious  robbery — I  know  not 
what ;  my  memory  has  kept  of  this  fantastic  scene  of  desola- 
tion as  of  that  other  scene  of  merriment  only  a  confused 
recollection  that  I  cannot  reproduce.  What  I  still  seem 
to  hear  as  I  heard  it  then  is  this  refrain  intoned  in  a 
plaintive  voice,  suddenly  disturbing  the  silence  that  reigned 
about : 


THE  TA  VERN  OF  THE  CA  TS  265 

"  The  coach  of  the  dead  was  grand 
As  it  passed  our  humble  door, 
But  from  it  beckoned  a  pallid  hand, 
And  I  saw  my  love  once  more." 

It  was  the  poor  boy,  who  was  locked  up  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  the  inn,  where  he  passed  his  days  in  motionless 
contemplation  of  the  picture  of  his  beloved,  without  speak- 
ing a  word,  scarcely  eating,  never  weeping,  hardly  opening 
his  lips  save  to  sing  this  simple,  tender  verse  enclosing  a 
poem  of  sorrow  that  I  then  learned  to  decipher. 


ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT 

The  gloaming  of  a  misty,  melancholy  autumn  day  is  suc- 
ceeded by  a  cold,  dark  night.  For  several  hours  now,  the 
continuous  stir  of  the  town  seems  to  have  ceased. 

Some  near,  others  far,  some  with  grave  and  measured  beat 
and  others  with  a  quick  and  tremulous  vibration,  the  bells 
are  swinging  in  their  towers,  flinging  out  upon  the  air  their 
metallic  notes  which  float  and  mingle,  lessen  and  die  away 
to  yield  place  to  a  new  rain  of  sounds  pouring  continually 
from  the  deep  brazen  throats  as  from  a  spring  of  inex- 
haustible harmonies. 

It  is  said  that  joy  is  contagious,  but  I  believe  that  sadness 
is  much  more  so.  There  are  melancholy  spirits  who  succeed 
in  eluding  the  intoxication  of  delight  that  our  great  popular 
festivals  carry  in  their  atmosphere.  It  is  hard  to  find  one 
who  is  able  to  bear  unaffected  the  icy  touch  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  sorrow,  if  this  comes  to  seek  us  in  the  privacy  of 
our  own  fireside, — comes  in  the  wearisome,  slow  vibration 
of  the  bell  that  is  like  a  grieving  voice,  uttering  its  tale  of 
troubles  at  one's  very  ear. 

I  cannot  hear  the  bells,  even  when  they  ring  out  merry 
peals  as  for  a  festival,  without  having  my  soul  possessed  by 
a  sentiment  of  inexplicable  and  involuntary  sadness.  In  the 
great  capitals,  by  good  or  evil  hap,  the  confused  murmur  of 
the  multitude  which  beats  on  every  sense,  full  of  the  noisy 
giddiness  of  action,  ordinarily  drowns  the  clamor  of  the  bells 
to  such  a  degree  as  to  make  one  believe  it  does  not  exist. 
To  me  at  least  it  seems  that  on  All  Souls'  Night,  the  only 
night  of  the  year  when  I  hear  them,  the  towers  of  the  Madrid 

266 


ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT  267 

churches,  thanks  to  a  miracle,  regain  their  voices,  breaking 
for  a  few  hours  only  their  long  silence.  Whether  it  be  that 
my  imagination,  predisposed  to  melancholy  thoughts,  aids 
in  producing  this  effect,  or  that  the  novelty  of  the  sound 
strikes  me  the  more  profoundly;  always  when  I  perceive, 
borne  on  the  wind,  the  separate  notes  of  this  harmony,  a 
strange  phenomenon  takes  place  in  my  senses.  I  think  that 
I  distinguish  the  different  voices  of  the  bells  one  from 
another;  I  think  that  each  of  them  has  its  own  tone  and  ex- 
presses a  special  feeling  ;  I  think,  in  fine,  that  after  lending 
for  some  time  profound  attention  to  the  discordant  combi- 
nation of  sounds,  deep  or  shrill,  dull  or  silvery,  which  they 
breathe  forth,  I  succeed  in  surprising  mysterious  words  that 
palpitate  upon  the  air  enveloped  in  its  prolonged  vibrations. 

These  words  without  connection,  without  meaning,  that 
float  in  space  accompanied  by  sighs  scarcely  perceptible  and 
by  long  sobs,  commence  to  reunite  one  with  another  as  the 
vague  ideas  of  a  dream  combine  on  waking,  and  reunited, 
they  form  an  immense,  dolorous  poem,  in  which  each  bell 
chants  its  strophe,  and  all  together  interpret  by  means  of 
symbolic  sounds  the  dumb  thought  that  seethes  in  the  brain 
of  those  who  harken,  plunged  in  profound  meditation. 

A  bell  of  hollow,  deafening  tone,  swinging  heavily  in  its 
lofty  tower  with  ceremonial  slowness,  that  seems  to  have  a 
mathematical  rhythm  and  moves  by  some  perfect  mechanism, 
says  in  peals  punctiliously  adjusted  to  the  ritual : 

"  I  am  the  empty  sound  that  melts  away  without  having 
made  vibrate  a  single  one  of  the  infinite  chords  of  feeling  in 
the  heart  of  man.  I  bear  in  my  echoes  neither  sobs  nor 
sighs.  I  perform  correctly  my  part  in  the  lugubrious,  aerial 
symphony  of  grief,  my  sonorous  strokes  never  falling  behind 
nor  going  in  advance  by  a  single  second.  I  am  the  bell  of 
the  parish  church,  the  official  bell  of  funeral  honors.  My 
voice  proclaims  the  mourning  of  etiquette  ;  my  voice  laments 


268  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

from  the  heights  of  the  belfry  announcing  to  the  neighbor- 
hood the  fatahty,  groan  by  groan ;  my  voice,  which  sorrows 
at  so  much  a  sob,  releases  the  rich  heir  and  the  young  widow 
from  other  cares  than  those  of  the  formalities  attending  the 
reading  of  the  will,  and  the  orders  for  elegant  mourning. 

"  At  my  peal  the  artisans  of  death  come  out  of  their 
atrophy :  the  carpenter  hastens  to  adorn  with  gold  braid  the 
most  comfortable  of  his  coffins ;  the  marble  worker  strikes 
in  his  chisel  seeking  a  new  allegory  for  the  ostentatious 
sepulchre  ;  even  the  horses  of  the  grotesque  hearse,  theatre 
of  the  last  triumph  of  vanity,  proudly  shake  their  antique 
tufts  of  fly  wing-colored  plumes,  while  the  pillars  of  the  church 
are  wound  about  with  black  baize,  the  traditional  catafalque 
is  set  up  under  the  dome,  and  the  choir-master  rehearses  on 
the  violin  a  new  Dies  Irae  for  the  last  mass  of  the  Requiem. 

"  I  am  the  grief  of  tinsel  tears,  of  paper  flowers  and  of 
distichs  in  letters  of  gold. 

"  To-day  it  is  my  duty  to  commemorate  my  fellow-country- 
men, the  illustrious  dead  for  whom  I  mourn  officially,  and  on 
doing  this  with  all  the  pomp  and  all  the  noise  befitting  their 
social  position,  my  only  regret  is  that  I  cannot  utter  one  by 
one  their  names,  titles  and  decorations ;  perchance  this  new 
formula  would  be  a  comfort  to  their  families." 

When  the  measured  hammering  of  the  heavy  bell  ceases 
an  instant  and  its  distant  echo,  blent  with  the  cloud  of  tones 
that  the  wind  carries  away,  is  lost,  there  begins  to  be  heard 
the  sad,  uneven,  piercing  melody  of  a  little  clapper-bell." 

"  I  am,"  it  says,  "  the  voice  that  sings  the  joys  and  bewails 
the  sorrows  of  the  village  which  I  dominate  from  my  spire  ; 
I  am  the  humble  bell  of  the  hamlet,  that  calls  down  with 
ardent  petitions  water  from  heaven  upon  the  parched  fields, 
the  bell  that  with  its  pious  conjurations  puts  the  storms  to 
flight,  the  bell  that  whirls,  quivering  with  emotion,  and  in 


ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT  269 

wild  outcries  pleads  for  succour  when  fire  is  devouring  the 
crops. 

"  I  am  the  friendly  voice  that  bids  the  poor  his  last  fare- 
well ;  I  am  the  groan  that  grief  chokes  in  the  throat  of  the 
orphan  and  that  mounts  on  the  winged  notes  of  the  bell  to 
the  throne  of  the  Father  of  Mercies. 

"  On  hearing  my  melody,  a  prayer  breaks  involuntarily 
from  the  lip,  and  my  last  echo  goes  to  breathe  itself  away  on 
the  brink  of  hidden  graves — an  echo  borne  by  the  wind  that 
seems  to  pray  in  a  low  voice  as  it  waves  the  tall  grass  that 
covers  them. 

"  I  am  the  weeping  that  scalds  the  cheeks  ;  I  am  the  woe 
that  dries  the  fount  of  tears  ;  I  am  the  anguish  that  presses 
on  the  heart  with  an  iron  hand ;  I  am  the  supreme  sorrow, 
the  sorrow  of  the  forsaken  and  forlorn. 

"  To-day  I  toll  for  that  nameless  multitude  which  passes 
through  life  unheeded,  leaving  no  more  trace  behind  than 
the  broad  stream  of  sweat  and  tears  that  marks  its  course ; 
to-day  I  toll  for  those  who  sleep  in  earth  forgotten,  without 
other  monument  than  a  rude  cross  of  wood  which,  perchance, 
is  hidden  by  the  nettles  and  the  spear-plume  thistles,  but 
amid  their  leaves  arise  these  humble,  yellow-petaled  flowers 
that  the  angels  sow  over  the  graves  of  the  just." 

The  echo  of  the  clapper-bell  grows  fainter  little  by  little 
till  it  is  lost  amid  the  whirlwind  of  tones,  above  which  are 
distinguished  the  crashing,  broken  strokes  of  one  of  those 
gigantic  bells  which  set  shuddering,  as  they  sound,  even  the 
deep  foundations  of  the  ancient  Gothic  cathedrals  in  whose 
towers  we  see  them  suspended. 

"I  am,"  says  the  bell  with  its  terrible,  stentorian  peal, 
"  the  voice  of  the  stupendous  mass  of  stone  which  your  fore- 
fathers raised  for  the  amazement  of  the  ages.  I  am  the 
mysterious  voice  familiar  to  the  long-robed  virgins,  the  angels, 
the  kings  and  the  marble  prophets  who  keep  watch  by  night 


270  ROMANTIC  LEGENDS  OF  SPAIN 

and  by  day  at  the  church  doors,  enveloped  in  the  shadows 
of  their  arches.  I  am  the  voice  of  the  misshapen  monsters, 
of  the  griffins  and  prodigious  reptiles  that  crawl  among  the 
intertwined  stone  leaves  along  the  spires  of  the  towers.  I 
am  the  phantasmal  bell  of  tradition  and  of  legend  that 
swings  alone  on  All  Souls'  Night,  rung  by  an  invisible  hand. 

"  I  am  the  bell  of  fearsome  folk-tales,  stories  of  ghosts 
and  souls  in  pain, — the  bell  whose  strange  and  indescribable 
vibration  finds  an  echo  only  in  ardent  imaginations. 

"  At  my  voice,  knights  armed  with  all  manner  of  arms 
rise  from  their  Gothic  sepulchres ;  monks  come  forth  from 
the  dim  vaults  in  which  they  are  sleeping  their  last  sleep 
to  the  foot  of  their  abbey  altars  ;  and  the  cemeteries  open 
their  gates  little  by  little  to  let  pass  the  troops  of  yellow 
skeletons  that  run  nimbly  to  dance  in  giddy  round  about  the 
pointed  spire  which  shelters  me. 

"  When  my  tremendous  clamor  surprises  the  credulous  old 
woman  before  the  antique  shrine  whose  lights  she  tends,  she 
believes  that  she  sees  for  a  moment  the  spirits  of  the  picture 
dance  amid  the  vermilion  and  ochre  flames  by  the  glimmer  of 
the  dying  lantern. 

"  When  my  mighty  vibrations  accompany  the  monotonous 
recital  of  an  old-time  fable  to  which  the  children,  grouped 
about  the  hearth,  listen  all  absorbed,  the  tongues  of  red  and 
blue  fire  that  glide  along  the  glowing  logs,  and  the  fiery 
sparks  that  leap  up  against  the  obscure  background  of  the 
kitchen,  are  taken  for  spirits  circling  in  the  air,  and  the 
noise  of  the  wind  shaking  the  doors,  for  the  work  of  souls 
knocking  at  the  leaded  panes  of  the  windows  with  the  flesh- 
less  knuckles  of  their  bony  hands. 

"  I  am  the  bell  that  prays  to  God  for  the  souls  condemned 
to  hell ;  I  am  the  voice  of  superstitious  terror ;  I  cause  not 
weeping,  but  rising  of  the  hair,  and  I  carry  the  chill  of  fright 
to  the  marrow  of  his  bones  who  harkens  to  me." 


ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT 


271 


So  one  after  another,  or  all  at  once,  the  bells  go  pealing 
on,  now  as  the  musical  theme  that  rises  clearly  above  the 
full  orchestra  in  a  grand  symphony,  now  as  a  fantasia  that 
lingers  and  recedes,  dilating  on  the  wind. 

Only  the  daylight  and  the  noises  that  come  up  from  the 
heart  of  the  town  at  the  first  dawn  can  put  to  flight  the  strange 
abortions  of  the  mind  and  the  doleful,  persistent  tolling  of 
the  bells,  which  even  in  sleep  is  felt  as  an  exhausting  night- 
mare through  the  eternal  Noche  de  Difuntos. 


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